


Cream Tea and Sympathy

by sam_ptarmigan



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: BDSM, Bathing/Washing, Dirty Talk, Family, First Sexual Experience, Food, Love Bites, M/M, Massage, Medical Kink, Prostate Milking, Rituals, Service, Sex Toys, Sex Work, Verbal Bondage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-22 04:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 34,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sam_ptarmigan/pseuds/sam_ptarmigan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vignettes and short stories from the Amethyst Tea House (seating by reservation only, menu available upon request, gratuity required for parties larger than one).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Locket Street (Dori, Glóin)

**Author's Note:**

> Rating and tags will be updated on an ongoing basis. The _Sex Work_ and _Service_ tags cover the series as a whole. Story-specific character/pairing and content tags will be included in chapter titles for the purposes of browsing. See individual chapter notes for anything fiddly.

It was simply perfect.

"That fireplace goes straight through to the second room. You have your stove over here. Cold water only from this pump, but the pipes in back come up from the steamworks."

Dori turned around slowly in the middle of the front room as Glóin son of Gróin ran down the list of amenities. His gut was adamant: this was the very place.

True, the apartments were not very big, but _cosy_ was hardly faint praise for his purposes. A sitting room, a nook of a kitchen, a bedroom, and a bath and water closet were all he really needed. It was the quality that mattered most, and the clean limestone walls and intricate tiling spoke of talented hands. The sounds of the street had faded the moment the sturdy oak door was shut—not that Locket Street was noisy to begin with—and all was snug and quiet.

This was in fact the sixteenth set of crafter’s apartments that Dori had been shown over the past week, and each of the others had been dismissed upon first sight, sound, and smell. He had thought himself prudent in engaging local landlords, for who would better know the hidden gems of the town? Yet his faith had proven misplaced as one by one they had taken him to bustling streets crowded with restaurants and public houses, boasting of traffic and travellers as if he wanted either of them.

Glóin was his last resort, and to his chagrin it now seemed obvious that only a fellow dwarf of Erebor could be counted upon to know what a proper tea house was meant to look like. Dori gazed contentedly through the little round glass window that looked out onto the street, which was a respectable boulevard of jewellers, scribes, and tailors. He lived only a few blocks away, though admittedly where the road was not quite as nicely cobbled, and a short walk would bring him home to Ori every evening for dinner and then again for breakfast and to see him off to lessons.

"Well?"

Flirting was unlikely to get him very far with a married dwarf, but Dori cast an arch-browed look at his best angle nonetheless. Smitten he might be, but he was no fool and would not be rushed. He set out upon a thorough inspection of the premises, aware of Glóin's gaze following him admiringly. His eyes took measure of the floor space and the height of the ceilings. He felt each wall for signs of damp and tested first the cold pump in the kitchen and then the hot water in the back room.

Curtains, he thought as he investigated the little alcove kitchen. Trimmed in silk, a muted purple perhaps, hiding away any untidiness. In the sitting room, he entertained the phantom images of a low, graceful table and an elegant couch for reclining in front of the fire. On the opposite hearth, in the bedroom, a warg's pelt would be just the thing. Would there be space? He did not wish to stint on the size of the bed, but certainly there had to be a hearth rug.

He schooled his features into calculated disinterest. "How much?"

"Forty-five for the year. In coin, paid upfront." Glóin added, a touch apologetically: "A lot of overhead expenses with tea."

Dori's cheeks flushed. He knew it all too well. There was a world's difference between moonlighting from his tinker's cart and opening his own establishment. He had already resigned himself to spending every copper penny from his inheritance in preparation. Accommodations and furnishings were only the beginning. There was food and drink to buy, and only the best would do. He would need to arrange for delivery of firewood and contract out his messaging and laundry. Bedsheets, candles, oils, soap—none of it could come cheaply if he did not wish himself to be thought mean.

"Forty," he said, tallying up the niceties that could be bought with the extra money. "These rooms have sat empty for more than a month, the way that pump creaked."

Glóin snorted and gave him a sly glance. "It's too much storage and too little shop for the merchants, but you'll be doing your crafting in the bedroom. It's worth forty-five to you, but I will knock off one piece because we're countrymen."

Dori refrained from pointing out that they were kinsmen as well, in blood if not on paper. "Forty-one and you install a proper bath. Stone, not wood or iron. Four feet by three by one and a half, minimum."

"Forty-three," Glóin countered. "I'll only need to tear it out again if you've gone out of business by year's end."

"Forty-two," Dori said firmly, "pending my approval of the bath, which is to be finished within the next fortnight."

Glóin tugged on his beard in a show of irritation, but the little smile on his lips suggested that Dori might have had him at forty-one after all.

"Agreed."

It was too late for regrets. A scroll case was drawn from Glóin's pocket in short order, and their terms were recorded in neat, precise wording. Glóin signed with a flourish and then passed the quill to him.

Dori paused for an instant, nib poised above the paper. The price might have been fair, but it was no trifle. His heartbeat was galloping, and his mouth ran dry. He had never spent such a sum all at once in his life, and surely neither had his mother, who had scraped every spare fleck of gold from not only her own earnings but from the dwindled fortunes of too many lost kinsmen. They were the last now, him and Nori and Ori. He was head of the family and charged with managing his share of their modest wealth as he saw fit.

If he did not spend it all, he might never spend any of it. He would hold it, tight-fisted, and perhaps he would tell himself he was keeping it in trust for Ori, and not for those who would never come back to claim it. Yet a business meant more than his own profit. A business was something for a family to take pride in, and it seemed somehow fitting to trade those last coins and little treasures of Erebor in order to set down their roots in a respectable place and put their days of travelling to an end.

He touched quill to contract. _Dori son of Helri_.

"A tea house in the Blue Mountains," Glóin said, chuckling. "Who would believe it?"

Dori looked around at all the empty possibility of his new shop and drew a deep breath. They might not believe it, but perhaps the curious would come to see for themselves. His door would be open then, and he would be waiting with tea and scones and his most welcoming smile. Only luck would decide whether they stepped through the doorway, but he trusted that if they did, a taste of his hospitality would be enough to bring them back for more.


	2. Sweet Violets (Dori, Vyri, Helri)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dori fell in love with the finer things as a dwarfling, in a shop (that never quite looked like a shop) belonging to his Uncle Vyri.

He raised himself up on his tiptoes, peering over the edge of the tall counters in Uncle Vyri’s kitchen.

“Dori!” Mama called out sharply from the sitting room. “You had better not be near that kettle.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Dori said, glancing back through the doorway with a pout.

He was not a baby, and he knew better than to touch a hot kettle or cauldron. His hands were in fact folded behind his back, because that was the rule at Uncle Vyri’s—Mama said. 

Uncle Vyri lived in a grand set of rooms nearly at the top of the mountain. He did not have any children, but his house was much bigger than Dori’s. Mama said it was because Uncle Vyri’s house was a shop as well, and not to ask rude questions. A sign hung outside, and Dori could read it all by himself: _The Silver Well Tea House_. Inside, it did not look at all like Mistress Embla’s shop, where Mama bought their tea and flour. It only looked like a home, full of pretty things that Dori was not allowed to touch.

Such as the teacup.

Dori stood on his tiptoes again, gazing longingly at the heap of treasure upon the drying rack. He had sneaked into the kitchen looking for sweets, but unattended jars of honey had been entirely forgotten the moment he laid eyes upon the tea set. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. The porcelain was as white and thin as an eggshell, and it was painted with tiny purple flowers on winding green stems. When he strained as tall as he could make himself, he could see that the rim of each cup was lined with real gold.

His hands twisted wretchedly behind his back. The teacups were little, as if they were made exactly for someone his size, and one of them was agonizingly within reach. Maybe he could just hold it for a moment, he told himself. Just to get a better look. Just for a moment, and then he would put it straight back where it belonged before Mama and Uncle Vyri even finished talking, because grown-ups talked for ages.

He chewed on his bottom lip and rocked back and forth. His hands unfolded. He reached up hesitantly and then drew back. Then he gathered his nerve and reached out again, his fingertips brushing the cool, smooth cup. 

“It’s lovely work, isn’t it?”

Dori spun around, his eyes wide as saucers. He hurriedly clapped his hands together behind his back and shook his head in fierce denial of the very notion that he might have touched anything.

To his relief, it seemed that his naughtiness had not been uncovered, for Uncle Vyri only patted him on the head as he entered the kitchen.

“You have a good eye—that’s Stonefoot, you know.” 

Dori gazed up at his uncle. He did not know what a Stonefoot was, but Uncle Vyri had a pleased smile upon his round face, and so Dori nodded as if he understood.

“Should we use it for tea today?” Uncle Vyri asked.

“Yes, please!” Dori cried. 

He hopped about, watching excitedly as Uncle Vyri set the beautiful teapot and cups and honey jar and strainer upon a tray. Uncle Vyri took out a big canister from the cupboard and measured out four spoonfuls of crinkly leaves and flowers. Dori stepped back when the kettle was taken off the fire and the water poured in, and then he hurried after his uncle as the tray was carried grandly into the sitting room.

Mama shook her head as soon as she saw them. “Use the everyday set, Vyri. That’s too nice for little hands.”

Dori let out a startled whine in protest.

“Nonsense,” Uncle Vyri said. “Dori will be careful. Won’t you, Dori?”

With a frantic nod, Dori clambered up into the chair that had a cushion waiting on it. His legs kicked impatiently as Mama split a scone for him. He closely tracked the application of thick cream and jam and took a great big bite the moment the scone was delivered to him.

The grown-ups talked about boring things: business and money and people he did not know. Dori worked on his scone and took notice when the tea was finally steeped. Uncle Vyri did everything very nicely, and Dori liked to watch him. He moved as if nothing he picked up weighed anything at all, and every little adjustment of the teapot and the cups seemed complicated and effortless at the same time. Holding the long sleeve of his pretty blue tunic back with one hand, Uncle Vyri poured tea for all of them. Honey was added specially to Dori’s—a generous drizzle that was then stirred in with a little silver spoon that never once clinked against the side of the cup.

Dori picked up the teacup eagerly. He mimicked Uncle Vyri, wrapping two of his fingers around the handle and letting his pinky stick out.

“Both hands,” Mama said.

He pouted, but he knew that she would take the cup away from him if he disobeyed. Holding it firmly in both hands, he took a sip. The tea tasted better than it usually did, he decided. It was the gold that did it.

The boring talk went on, but Dori did not mind as long as he had scone to eat and tea to drink. He quietly sang a song to himself and soon was picking up crumbs from his plate and licking them from his fingertips. His gaze travelled all around the sitting room, revisiting old favourites like the sloping velvet couch that he was not allowed to sit on, and the dark blue curtains that felt like how moonlight should feel, and all the fancy silver candlesticks. There was a box upon the mantel that Dori desperately wanted to play with. It held coins, which Dori knew because sometimes Uncle Vyri would give some to Mama, but the money was less interesting than the box itself, which stood on golden legs and which had a red velvet lid that looked soft to the touch.

Mama laid her hand atop his head. “Stop your fidgeting.”

He meant to argue that he was not fidgeting, but at that moment Uncle Vyri plucked him right out of his chair and sat him on his knee. Dori squealed in delight, even though he had not sat in anyone’s lap for a very long time because he was a big boy now, and because Mama’s belly was too round with the baby for there to be any room for him. He decided not to tell Uncle Vyri about being too old for laps.

“Look at this lad,” Uncle Vyri said, fussing at him. “He’s as apple-cheeked as a girl.”

Mama clucked her tongue, but Dori thought she secretly looked pleased, like when Mister Halvin had said her copper-work was the best in the city. “You’ll turn his head.”

“Good,” Uncle Vyri said, pinching Dori’s cheek and then tilting his chin this way and that to look at him more closely. His hands were curiously soft all over, not at all like Mama’s, and he wore many rings that felt smooth and cool against Dori's face. “Better he have his head turned now than by the first miner who strings a few compliments together in thirty years. A boy this pretty needs to be callous.”

Dori wiggled happily at having been called pretty. It seemed a great compliment from Uncle Vyri, whose hair was red and silver and whose beard was braided in tiny, fancy plaits.

Mama hummed, and Uncle Vyri hummed back. 

“On a completely unrelated subject,” Uncle Vyri said, “how is Nuar?”

Mama picked up her teacup and took a drink. Her eyes went narrow. “Well, as far as I know.”

Dori waited for her to say more, and when she did not, he wondered if she had forgotten. He twisted to look up at Uncle Vyri, confiding: “He comes to our house every day. He brings us presents.”

“Does he really?” Uncle Vyri asked, looking very interested.

“He wants Mama to marry him,” Dori added, pleased at having news to bear. 

Mama sighed very loudly. She and Uncle Vyri gave funny looks to each other.

“I have a little one and another on the way,” Mama said. “I don’t have time to look after a husband as well.”

Uncle Vyri took a last sip of his tea, the empty cup hovering within Dori’s reach. “They are a lot of work.”

Mama laughed, although it was not a smiling sort of laugh. “Now imagine doing it for free.”

Uncle Vyri chuckled and made a good-luck sign. “Maker forbid.”

Dori frowned, sensing a joke he did not understand. He reached out and tentatively tugged at the teacup, and Uncle Vyri let him have it. He turned it over carefully in his hands as the grown-ups’ talk turned back to Mama’s crafting and other regular, dull things. The little purple flowers on the teacup glinted with dew, and he rubbed them to make certain it was really paint. His fingertip then traced the wavy rise and fall of the cup's lip, following the line of gold.

Uncle Vyri stroked his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. He smelled nice, like spice cake and flowers, and he was soft like a pillow. Dori stopped fussing with the teacup and cradled it gently to his chest like a poppet. He rested his cheek contentedly against Uncle Vyri's shoulder, happy to cuddle while his mother and uncle talked, and to doze in a comfortable embrace until it was time to go home again.


	3. The Amethyst Tea House (Bofur/Dori)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A family party may be traditional for the launch of a business, but Dori finds that tea with a neighbour will do in a pinch.

The cold bit at his fingers as he fumbled with the bracket and bolt. He cursed under his breath and squinted into the darkness. His toes were turning numb in his house shoes, and he was very careful as he shifted his weight upon the ladder and tried once again to fix the iron bracket to the wall.

First light had not yet cleared the eastern peaks, and everything was coated in slippery early morning frost. Dori had seen Ori tucked in at Mistress Finna's and had spent the rest of the night putting the finishing touches on his new shop. All that remained was to hang up his sign, which he had hoped to accomplish before the rest of the street was up to gawk at him.

He put the bolt between his teeth and lined up the bracket and nut. Then, willing it to stay in place, he braced it with one hand and reached for the wrench. So intent was he on his task that he did not hear the approaching footsteps until they were directly below him.

"Would you be needing a hand, there?"

Dori nearly swallowed the bolt in surprise. The bracket slipped, and the nut fell—landing with a tiny, muffled thump. He spat out the bolt and looked down to find Bofur son of Scur standing at the base of the ladder with the fallen nut resting in one mitten-clad palm.

"Steady there," Bofur said, flashing up a handsome grin. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"You're lucky I didn't drop a wrench on your head!" Dori cried. "What are you doing out so late?"

Bofur was usually one of the more law-abiding of Nori's friends, but Dori himself felt halfway criminal skulking about on such a respectable street in the dark hours.

"I just got off a double shift," Bofur said. "Are you trying to get that sign up? Let me help."

"There's only room for one on the ladder," Dori pointed out.

"Oh, it's no trouble," Bofur said, and before Dori could protest, he had hauled himself up by the window ledge and was climbing onto the roof.

"Mind the frost!" Dori chided. The last sort of publicity he needed was someone breaking their neck in front of his shop. 

Bofur proved to be as sure-footed as a wild goat. He scrambled up the incline and then lowered himself onto his belly, wiggling forward until he was face to face with Dori. He grinned again and took hold of the bracket with both hands.

"Thank you," Dori said quietly.

It was quick work from there. He secured the bracket to the wall with a few good cranks of the wrench and then attached his sign to the chains before leaning back to admire it.

_The Amethyst Tea House_

He had painted the sign himself in discreet but stylish black lettering. Engraved in the lower left corner was the gift rune: two intersecting lines of hospitality and fair exchange.

"Is Nori about?" Bofur asked, dangling off the roof and twisting at an alarming angle to read the sign for himself.

"Why?" Dori asked, his eyes narrowing. "Does he owe you money?"

"No," Bofur said, and then he paused. "A few coppers, but we're mostly square. I just thought he'd be here, grand opening and all. Or is that in the morning?"

Dori was silent for a moment. "No. This is it. Nori is out of town."

"That's a shame," Bofur said, the sympathy plain in his voice. "There ought to be a party."

"I'm entirely too busy for a party," Dori said.

"That's a shame too," Bofur said, his eyes twinkling. "Need a hand with anything else, seeing as Nori's not here?"

Dori hesitated and then looked at the chimney. "As long as you're up there..."

He was soon back inside, shining a lamp up the flue while Bofur waged war with an abandoned bird's nest using the long-handled scratch brush. Bits of twigs fell into the firebox, followed by an ashy clump.

"Got it!" Bofur cried triumphantly, his voice echoing in the chimney. 

Dori swept up the mess and then peeked out to make certain that Bofur climbed down safely. He was entirely prepared to bid him good night, or good morning as the case might be, but Bofur looked charmingly pleased with himself and craned his neck in obvious curiosity to see past Dori into the shop.

"You might as well come in and wash up," Dori said. "I already have the kettle on."

Inside, Dori could see the effects of the late hour and a double shift on Bofur's face. His eyes were red and shadowed, and his hair was as dusty as his boots, but his expression brightened as he gazed about the sitting room. 

A fretful niggle turned in Dori's stomach as he looked around with Bofur, trying to see the place anew. He had not spared any expense on the decor. Perhaps he had spent too much, for he had indulged himself nearly to drunkenness with each pretty purchase. Yet the crafting of a room was no different than the crafting of a necklace. Leave out one link, stint on one stone, and the whole would not be worth the sum of its parts.

The grand oak furnishings shone like gold under their new sheen of beeswax. They would look even handsomer with the fire lit, but for the moment the apartments were warmed only by the stove and a few hanging lamps. Touches of silver glinted around the sitting room, playing against a backdrop of pale purple silk and velvet. His grandmother's axes hung in the place of pride above the mantel, their graceful curves and ivory inlays drawing and holding the eye.

Bofur let out a long, low whistle. "This is nice."

Dori relaxed. The unlucky shadow of a solitary grand opening shortened in the light of company. There might not be a party, but there would at least be tea. 

"Go wash up," he said kindly. "I'll see if I can't find us something to eat."

As Bofur made use of the water closet, Dori slipped through the silk curtains into the little kitchen and put together a tea tray. He warmed his silver teapot and then poured the water out into the washing-up basin. Chamomile seemed best for the late hour, and he measured out three spoonfuls before filling the teapot for a second time. A jar of honey joined the tray, along with two of his wildflower teacups. His cupboards were not yet stocked, but he had brought a little bread for himself from home and now cut what was left into delicate slices to spread with blackberry jam. 

When Bofur reappeared, he was scrubbed pink about the face and hands. Dori pulled out a chair for him and then took his own seat and served the bread and jam while he waited for the tea to steep. 

They spoke idly of the cold mornings and the coming winter, and of the way snow still did not smell quite right here. Dori's nose wiggled when the scent of the tea grew to just the right strength. He poured for them both and let Bofur have first use of the honey jar.

"Thanks," Bofur said, wrapping both hands around the teacup and inhaling the steam. Once his fingers were warmed, he added a hefty serving of honey and stirred it in with a clatter before pouring the resulting concoction into his saucer.

Dori twitched, but managed to hold his tongue. Uncle Vyri had told him more than once that it was not enough to offer fine things if a guest did not feel at home with them. Luxury was meant to be enjoyed, held close and savoured—not merely put on a shelf to be stared at. If only for the length of a visit, a happy guest should feel as though it were his own tea he was being served, and his own fine furniture he lounged upon, and his own lover who smiled at him. 

As he watched, Bofur's eyelids grew heavier and his shoulders unwound. He looked as though he could fall asleep at the table, but he managed to stay upright and slurp the whole of one cup bit by bit from his saucer until nothing was left. Dori offered to pour again, but Bofur shook his head with a rueful smile.

"I ought to be finding my way home. I'm taking the toy cart to market tomorrow."

Dori clucked his tongue in mingled admiration and censure of his industriousness and stood to escort him to the door. 

"It really is a fine place," Bofur said, pausing on the threshold and clapping him on the shoulder. His Khuzdul was as rusty as Dori's, but the words he spoke held the proper air of ceremony nonetheless. " _May your name be golden_."

Dori patted him on the shoulder in return and saw him out with his thanks. He had barely returned to the table to gather the dishes when the door opened again. Bofur stuck his head in with a rueful smile, and Dori glanced about instinctively to see if a stray mitten had been left behind. 

"I, er, get paid at the end of the month," Bofur announced before quickly ducking out once more.

For a long moment, Dori merely stood where he was with two teacups in hand. Then he laughed quite despite himself and carried the tray back into the kitchen. He saw to the dishes and then took down the leather-bound book and silver pencil that sat atop his recipe collection. 

He opened it up to the crisp sound of a new spine cracking, and he counted off the days until the end of the month and then flipped ahead accordingly to write Bofur's name neatly at the top of the page. The rest of the pages, blank save for the ledger lines, fluttered past as he shut the book. 

It was certainly a start.


	4. A Traditional Establishment (Balin/Dori, Massage)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Amethyst Tea House sees its very first customer.

Dori had assumed that his first proper guest would be one of his established customers—Arnor perhaps, or Kol, or Regin. He had gained a respectable number of admirers among the merchants of the Blue Mountains, and while not all would be pleased to see his rates increasing, most had seemed cheered at the prospect of private rooms and richer service. Nonetheless, though several notes would arrive from prior acquaintances in the days after the tea house formally opened for business, the very first letter was delivered not an hour after his sign was hung, and it came from the desk of Balin son of Fundin.

The letter did not provide any more information than the young messenger might have announced from memory, but it was written down discreetly on very good paper in an impeccable hand. Balin wished him a good morning, offered his felicitations, and wondered if Dori would be receiving callers between the hours of luncheon and dinner that day.

"Two o'clock," Dori told the messenger, and then he paused and corrected himself. "No, three o'clock."

He did not mean to be coy—not on his first day, and not with a member of the royal house requesting his hospitality. Practicality was to blame. He had not slept at all last night, and he still had to return home to make Ori's breakfast, and he would need to go to the market, and there were dusty miner's bootprints all across his sitting room, and he certainly had to bathe, and his hair...well, the less said about the current state of his hair, the better.

"Three o'clock," he said again, attempting to make clear in his tone and expression that the words _two o'clock_ had never been uttered.

"Three o'clock," the messenger repeated dutifully.

The morning passed in a flurry of activity. He saw Ori woken up, fed, and sent off to his lessons, and then he managed to steal two hours of beauty rest in his own bed. He spent his second-last coin at the marketplace and then returned to his shop, where he mopped the floor, arranged a cheerful vase of golden yarrow blossoms, and then fussed over the placement of the couch for the better part of half an hour.

He bathed shortly after midday, thoroughly cleaning every inch of himself from toes to teeth. The familiarity of the routine calmed him some, and what doubts remained after a long soak in the bathtub were soon banished as he washed and dried his hair and beard. An oiled comb coaxed both to their best autumn-red sheen, and he braided the smooth locks into a serpentine arrangement, which he anointed with a drop of violet scent.

His robe was new and a delicious indulgence. It was cut from beautiful dark blue velvet, with silver buttons and embroidery. The soft weight of the garment upon his skin threw a spark of arousal in his belly. He was entirely naked underneath, which was only sensible for his purposes and yet thrilled him nonetheless. The velvet teased him with every swish as he put on his house shoes and began his final preparations.

By three o'clock, the light outside had faded beneath a shroud of snow-clouds, but inside the Amethyst, all was warm and waiting. The fire crackled, and the lamps burned comfortably low. A pot of dandelion tea was steeping, and the table was laid with a generous spread of cold grouse pie and sliced pears.

Dori was peering at his reflection in the back of a spoon when someone knocked at the door. He set down the spoon, paused to smooth his robes and check his braids one more time, and then answered the door with a welcoming smile.

"Mister Dori," Balin said, bowing. He was dressed in fine visiting clothes topped with a fur-trimmed coat, and his ash-coloured hair glinted with newly fallen snowflakes.

"Mister Balin," Dori replied, bowing just a little lower. "Won't you come in?"

They shared a certain familiarity, of course. All those who had made the long journey west from Erebor, through the towns of men and the darkness of Dimrill Dale, had a sort of kinship that tentatively crossed the lines of class. Even here, amongst their Blue Mountain cousins, a merchant and miner might stop to exchange pleasantries in the street for no other reason than being countrymen. Nonetheless, Dori had only tinkered in those travelling days, when few of his fellow refugees had coin to spend on luxuries, and up until this very day, his client list had been comprised entirely of Blue Mountain natives.

There was a touch of strangeness, then, in putting his hands upon Balin's shoulders and taking his coat—and a small shiver of pleasure in sitting such a distinguished figure down at his table and having his offerings surveyed with obvious approval.

"Would you like a cup of tea, or would you prefer a glass of wine?" Dori asked. "I have a very nice bottle of rose hip, five years old."

"Tea would be lovely," Balin said. He then added, somewhat apologetically, "Just tea, in fact. I hope you don't mind. I only wished to offer my congratulations in person."

Dori's mouth momentarily puckered into a pout, but he thought he covered it well. He poured Balin's tea and then, having splurged on a lemon, cut him a generous wedge.

"I would say I don't hear that often," he noted lightly, trying to quell the worry that he would hardly make back the cost of his marketing, "but it happens to be my first day, so you're in luck."

Balin chuckled and politely took a slice of pie and two slivers of pear. "If I may confess to nosiness, perhaps I also wished to have a look at the place."

"Look all you like," Dori said, pouring his own cup and stirring in a squirt of lemon and dollop of honey.

With an appreciative hum, Balin did just that. His gaze travelled over the furnishings and the tabletop and then, rather cheekily, over Dori himself. He picked up his teacup with a wistful smile.

"Nostalgia," Balin said, sounding rueful. "I have warned many a young friend against succumbing to its charms, but when I heard there was a tea house opening, I couldn't resist."

"It's the first of its kind in town, or so I've been told."

The differences were small between the Blue Mountains and Erebor. The winters were longer here, though not as cold. Folk raised sheep instead of goats. Ale was lighter, and grain was dearer, and love for the unmarried seemed a more haphazard affair. Not that Dori objected to merriment at the pub or private contracts the likes of which had cushioned his coffers since settling here, but in his opinion, more than the Act was missing from a bachelor's life.

Take a fine figure such as Balin. He was wed to his work, as anyone so clever ought to be, and as devoted to his family as any proper dwarf. Were ale and tupping all such a fellow deserved on a rare night off? It seemed a shame, considering the marriage-home offered a host of other pleasures: intimate conversation and idle embraces, hot baths in good company, the hand that wielded a comb, the hand that set one's braids before battle.

"It makes my heart glad to see countrymen prospering here," Balin said. He looked around admiringly again. "We wandered too far and too long, but I would like to think we brought the best of Erebor with us."

Dori smiled into his tea. "I'm hardly prospering yet."

"You will," Balin said. He hummed as he tried the pie. "It's very good, this. Is it your own recipe?"

Truth be told, Dori had bought it, and at a discount at that. He and Nori had entered into an arrangement with their baker in the lean days of Mother's illness and still provided small game in exchange for a few coppers off bread and pies.

"My uncle once told me there were three things one should never ask a host," Dori said, narrowing his eyes in mock sternness, "and that was one of them."

Balin smiled roguishly at being chided. It looked very well on him. What a pity if he did not mean to stay.

"Now, I heard," Dori commented between nibbles on a pear, "that you've been working with the council. Something about the library?"

Balin's eyes lit up, and he leaned forward as he spoke. "It's only a small project, really. The archives have been outgrowing their chamber for years, it seems, and Mistress Auda happened to mention to me—"

Here he paused and inclined his head with a small smile, acknowledging how easily he had been lured into speaking about himself. Yet he continued, and Dori was happy to listen to him expound at length on the need for a larger library space, and the proposed building site, and the vexatious foot-dragging of certain council members who would go unnamed.

"If they have any sense," Dori said, "they will vote you in before year's end."

Balin wagged a finger at him, but Dori thought he looked pleased nonetheless. Their gazes held for a moment, and then another.

"More pie?" Dori asked, offering the dish.

"Oh no, I couldn't possibly," Balin protested.

Dori rose as if to clear away the platter, but as he rounded the table he placed a light hand upon Balin's shoulder. He felt him shift, not tensing precisely, but alert.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like some wine?" Dori asked. "Or something sweet?"

Dwarves were not made of stone, no matter what strange stories men and elves might tell. A fellow might survive longer without touch than he could without food or drink, but it did not make the lack any less keenly felt. In Dori's case, he would sooner give up ale and honey than he would kisses and bed-bouncing.

Balin's expression shifted slightly from _I couldn't possibly_ to the sort of _Oh, I shouldn't_ that so often accompanied reaching for the pudding spoon.

"Something sweet, is it?" Balin asked.

Dori squeezed his shoulder softly. "Whatever you'd like."

There was certainly a glimmer in Balin's eyes now. "I wouldn't wish to impose."

Dori placed his other hand on Balin's opposite shoulder and squeezed again. "You're all over knots. I would be a sorry host if I let you leave without a back rub."

"Well," Balin said at last, turning his head and placing a kiss upon the back of Dori's hand, "we would not want you to be a sorry host."

Anticipation and relief swam through him as he led Balin into the bedroom. With the door shut behind them, the room became a cosy den of firelight and warm shadows. The counterpane had already been folded down to the foot of the bed in invitation, and the pillows were plumped. A touch of cedar oil had been heated in the burner, the scent hanging lightly, and the warmth in the air invited disrobing.

He stood close behind Balin and undressed him slowly. There was nothing nicer than taking one's time, especially when the clothing one removed was finely made and the body below handsome. First came the belt, heavy and well-crafted in leather and silver. Dori's hands lingered about Balin's middle as he unfastened the buckle, and then he paused to pluck one coin from the tethered purse. The belt, he set upon the padded bench, and the coin he placed upon the mantel so that Balin could clearly see his price.

There were no complaints.

The silk-trimmed tunic was next, slipped lightly from Balin's shoulders and down his powerful arms. Removing the shirt below allowed Dori's fingers to venture beneath the hem, brushing against warm flesh. Balin raised his arms obligingly as the shirt was drawn up, and he was soon naked to the waist under Dori's appreciative eye. 

Dori knelt down in front of him and helped him off with his boots and socks. He would need to put down a rug here, he mused, for kneeling by the bedside ought to be comfortable. His hands slid up Balin's thighs, and then he loosed the laces on his trousers.

Balin sighed softly, reaching out to touch a filigree braid. At the slightest beckon, Dori would have been quite pleased to suck his cock, but Balin's expression mingled amusement with arousal in the half-light, and an eloquent flex of his hand seemed to say _go on_.

The trousers came off, and then the small-pants, leaving Balin entirely bare and Dori stealing bold and hungry eyefuls. 

"Make yourself comfortable," he said with a purr, rising to his feet and urging Balin onto the bed.

Balin lay down on his front with his head pillowed in his arms. Dori slipped off his shoes and climbed up beside him, gazing his fill of a broad back and sturdy limbs. He removed his robe, not wishing to stain it, and hung it from the bedpost before retrieving the bottle of cedar oil from the bedside table. The mellow scent grew heavier as he poured a measure of oil into his cupped hands and then rubbed his palms together briskly. 

He hummed a few verses of "The Lay of Narl the Suitor" as he kneaded Balin's neck and shoulders. Muscle eased beneath his touch, and Balin made small, gratifying sounds under his breath every time Dori's fingers dug into a sensitive spot. He was lovely to touch, warrior-hard and wealthy-soft, from the peppering of scars to his surprisingly ticklish sides.

"Behave yourself," Balin warned him, burying a hiccough into the pillow as Dori's fingers swept too lightly over his ribs.

"Now where is the fun in that?" Dori said, smiling smugly as he moved his attentions down to Balin's backside.

His own fire burned low but steady, a heaviness settling into his loins as he revelled in his labour. He did not stint, leaving every place he touched gleaming with oil. Balin's legs were rubbed to jelly, and his feet roughly pressed and pulled until Balin groaned from deep in his chest. 

"Turn over," Dori said.

There was a lovely laxness to Balin's motions as he obeyed. His eyelids seemed heavier, and his cock had woken up. Dori licked his lips reflexively. It was a lovely endowment, quite thick and straightening up before his eyes like a slouching soldier at inspection. 

Balin looked him over in turn, and his contemplation was nearly a caress. It idled at Dori's chest, wandering over the subtle curves and the dusting of red curls that framed Dori's nipples. From there it travelled down his belly, following the trail that led to the evidence of his arousal. 

"Beautiful," Balin declared, and though the heat in his eyes had already spoken it, the praise was lovely to hear nonetheless.

It was said that good work paid twice: once in coin, and once in satisfaction for a job well done. _Thrice_ , his uncle had confided. _In this trade, thrice_. Dori remembered clearly sitting at his uncle's table on a quiet morning when the shop was closed, helping to polish the silverware. _What's the third?_ he had asked, thirty or thirty-five if he was a year. 

Uncle Vyri had smiled that wry smile of his. _Flattery_.

Dori was inclined to be more generous as he oiled his hands again and began once more at Balin's shoulders. _Sweetness_ , he thought as Balin gazed up at him. Perhaps even _romance_ , for a very practical and strict definition of the word. For did it really matter if money had changed hands or that their time would be brief if his stomach fluttered and flipped all the same?

He carried on, not intending to deprive Balin's front of one ounce of the care bestowed upon his back. Nor did he intend to deprive himself, for there was even more to play with on this side. His fingers combed through the marvellous mat of dark hair upon Balin's chest and teased his nipples with little slippery strokes before moving down to his belly, which was round and inviting, the sort of place a fellow would like to rest his head. 

Dori took up the song again, humming as he kneaded Balin's thighs. He worked his way down slowly to the tips of Balin's toes and then up once more, lavishing attention upon every part of him save for his cock and stones, which he saved for the very last. The bottle was uncorked once more, and he poured a drizzle of oil onto Balin's length. 

Balin sighed at the first touch and pushed up minutely into Dori's hands. "The Lay of Narl the Suitor" gave way to the sound of slow, wet strokes. Balin's cock was heavy and warm, growing quickly as it was lovingly caressed. It slid smoothly through the grasp of Dori's fingers, rubbed until the oil glistened over every inch. 

There was no excuse, in Dori's opinion, to savour dinner and bolt down dessert. He used his fingertips, and both cupped hands, and one tight fist by turn. His thumb teased in soft circles over the silky head, flicking gently over the slit and then rubbing a bead of clear moisture into the sheen of oil. He cupped Balin's stones with care and drew his fingernails down his belly and thighs.

Balin drew him down for a kiss, and Dori went gladly. Their mouths met softly at first, the barest brush, and then found their fit. Dori had never kissed a fellow with a bare lip before, and it tickled rather pleasantly, smooth and soft and deliciously easy to capture. He reached down, grasping Balin's cock again. Their embrace grew hotter—Balin's mouth opening beneath his own, with the shallow rocking of hips and the flex of fingers around the back of Dori's neck. 

Pleasure rose in a slow swell. Balin's breathing grew heavier, drawn in deeply and exhaled in little _ah_ s against Dori's lips. Dori's hand in turn grew quicker, holding at a firm and steady rhythm until none could have resisted. Balin moaned, tightening his grasp on him and pushing up as he peaked. The kisses faltered, and Dori looked down to watch with a tingle of excitement as Balin spilled over his fingers. His rapid strokes whipped the cream to froth, and Balin shut his eyes tightly in obvious bliss as he was ushered through the full length of his spending.

Dori finally let his hand slow then, making certain he had drawn forth every last bit before setting Balin's cock down gently and giving it a tender pat. 

Balin opened his eyes and smiled. He played with Dori's beard as he caught his breath, tugging lightly on his braids. "If you mean to find your pleasure," he murmured, "I would very much like to watch."

Dori made as if to consider the proposal. He was already quite hard, despite not having been touched, and he flushed even hotter at the thought of lying naked beneath Balin's full attention. 

"Only if you'll kiss me," he said as he lay down on his back. 

"You drive a very hard bargain," Balin said, propping himself up beside him and then kissing him soundly.

It was very wicked, using his dirty hands to touch himself. He trailed his fingertips down his belly and up his thigh before rubbing the slick mess of oil and come all over his cock. Balin watched closely, looking away now and then only to drop sweet kisses upon his lips. A few tickles and pulls were all that were needed to rouse Dori fully, and he suspected the flicker of Balin's tongue against his own might have been enough to do it anyhow. 

Whim alone governed his mood for a light touch or a bit of rough, and he opted for the former because it bared the most of him—two fingers and a thumb sliding slowly up and down, allowing the best view of his cock. He was accustomed to being quiet, for anyone growing up in a small set of apartments with two brothers had best learn to be silent and stealthy, but he let the noises come now. He hummed softly as Balin kissed him, and his lips shaped breathy little moans in between.

Balin scattered warm pecks across his cheek and down his neck. Dori arched, granting him better access. His strokes grew longer, the press of his fingers pushing harder as Balin cupped the softness of his chest, playing with his nipples until they swelled. They were plucked gently for a time, and then Balin ducked his head and fixed his mouth to one of them. 

" _Ah_ ," Dori cried. His pleasure welled up at the heat and suction, and though he held his spending at bay for several long moments as his nipples were brought to the point of aching, he had to let it spill over, his hips giving a helpless buck.

"Oh, that is lovely," Balin said quietly, drawing back to watch as Dori came.

Dori shivered with his spending, and his happy moan nearly turned to breathless laughter. The coin on the mantel was worth three good days of tinkering, and here it had been given to him for doing nothing more than what he liked best, with lovely company no less. This could work, it really could. He took in through half-lidded eyes the slowing motion of his fingers and the pearly strands of come on his belly and then the rapt expression upon Balin's face, which gave him one last tremor of joy. 

It was, he thought with a shameless smile of triumph, the look of a dwarf who remembered why he was so very fond of tea houses.


	5. Word of Mouth (Dori, Various)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dori navigates his first week of business, and the Blue Mountains are abuzz.

Talk began in the marketplace, as it usually did, winding through the crowds and hopping from stall to stall.

"Truly?" Falki asked. "A proper one?"

"Aye," said Ulfur. "It's the Peridot or the Emerald, something like that. Just over on Locket Street."

"A tea house here. Will wonders never cease—you there! Mind your hands! This is a business, not your mother's pantry!"

* * *

To Dori's consternation, almost every copper penny of profit he made in his first week went directly back into the shop. He had been braced for this, of course, but that did not make it any easier to part so quickly with his hard-earned pay. First of all, he needed to stock up on flour and wine, and with winter coming on, the window was swiftly closing on buying black tea and any other eastern delicacies.

Then there was the matter of not only a rug beside the bed but some manner of footstool for the couch, for it had proved a popular place for a spot of cock-sucking and Dori did not intend to ruin his knees. That raised further quandaries. Bare oak? In an absolute pinch, perhaps, but his thriftiness would be on display for all to see. There was a little bench at home that he supposed he could upholster, perhaps to match the couch.

Or there was the graceful-legged beauty on display at Mister Stulnur's. Ivory silk would complement the violet perfectly.

He sat down at the table with a sigh and placed his chin in his hands, gazing at the empty spot in front of the couch in wretched indecision. He felt his mother’s loss at the strangest times, and of all the things he had expected to miss about her, being flicked on the ear and called a goose was not one of them.

* * *

"It's Vyri's sister-son, you know," Falki said, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the pub.

"Vyri?" Grimir said and banged his empty stein against the side of the table to call for a refill. "Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in an age. Which one’s this, then?”

"Helri’s eldest. You know him. Auburn hair, pretty, plump.” His hands traced a sturdy shape in the air. “The tinker."

"Oh, the _tinker_. You should have said it was the _tinker_. How was I to know whose sister-son he is?"

"You'd know if you went to this tea shop, is what I was saying. By my beard, you would think you were back home..."

* * *

There was nothing at all embarrassing about buying personal lubrication. It was what it was, and it had many respectable uses besides the obvious. Good oil could be employed for a massage, or to perfume a room, or as a dose of healing in a hot bath. Despite all this, it was nonetheless at least a little fidget-inducing to require the stuff in such quantity that one found oneself bargaining for a bulk discount.

"This is what you want," Óin son of Gróin declared, thumping a pot down on the counter. "It's my own concoction."

The word _concoction_ did not fill Dori with confidence, even though Óin's workroom did look halfway like a respectable apothecary. He had already been to Mistress Idun's, but it never hurt to shop around—nor to see whether one could wrangle a better price on the basis of a landlord’s connexions.

Dori sniffed the pot and frowned. "It doesn't smell of anything."

"That's only the base," Óin said. "I can put in whatever you like as long as it isn't resinous or sour."

'For an extra fee' was said just as clearly in his tone, but Dori was already thinking with burgeoning excitement of roses, almonds, and lavender.

Dori rested one finger on the edge of the pot and glanced at Óin, who nodded. He took a sample and rubbed it slowly between thumb and forefinger, aware of Óin's gaze resting heavily upon him as he did so. He could not stifle his hum of surprise. It felt like silk and water.

When he looked up, Óin's expression seemed to be one of mingled professional pride and thoroughly unprofessional avarice.

"I'll need a fortnightly delivery," Dori said, preparing to get down to the business of bargaining.

Óin huffed. "Locket Street is out of my way."

Dori looked Óin over with one eyebrow arched. True, his beard was not quite as full and handsome as his brother's, but he had a very nice moustache, and there was something to be said for a fellow who experimented.

He smiled. "I'm certain we can work something out."

* * *

"What does he serve up?" Halfdan asked with a chortle.

It was saucy talk for the lord and lady's hall, but the ale had been flowing and the singing had begun, and the warriors' table was always granted indulgence.

"More than I'd ever heard of," Grimir said with a grin as a few others leaned in to listen. "There's a menu—worth sending for no matter your intention. It whets the appetite, if you take my meaning."

"Do you reckon he does the rites?"

"It didn’t say, but Vyri used to."

"Aye, well...that was Vyri."

* * *

Dori fumbled his parcels yet again, attempting to hold everything under one arm while dragging Ori through the marketplace. How in the world did one child manage to get so sticky at the smallest provocation?

"Stop fussing with your braids," he chided when Ori started picking at his ribbons.

"I don't like them," Ori sighed. "I want my hair the way Mama did it."

"You can have it the way Mama did it when you stop getting so messy. I'm not making Mistress Finna give you a bath every day. She's been generous enough."

Ori dug in his heels in front of an apple cart, a dangerous whine rising in his voice. "I can have my own bath. At _our_ house."

"No, you can't," Dori said briskly, trying to tug Ori back into motion. "There's no one to look after you."

"Nori can look after me," Ori insisted.

Dori's jaw clenched. "Nori isn't here."

"He would be if you weren't so bossy all the time," Ori muttered, scowling at the ground.

Dori flinched. He silently counted to five and resisted the urge to shout—or worse, to drop Ori’s hand and simply walk away. “I am not arguing with you in the street,” he said firmly. "It's common."

He pulled harder on the small hand within his own, and after a mulish moment of disobedience, Ori slunk after him with his head hanging down and his breathing suspiciously sniffly.

* * *

"This Amethyst—is it any good?"

The quill halted in its path as Balin glanced up at the interruption. "What makes you think I know anything about it?"

"Because I know you, brother," Dwalin said, throwing himself down in the chair opposite and slinging his feet up onto the table. He smelled of the hall—or rather, of ale. "Come on, out with it."

Balin looked him over with a measuring eye. "Are you asking for yourself, or for our mutual friend?"

Dwalin fidgeted guiltily at the question. He shrugged and pursed his lips, looking altogether too unconcerned to be believed. "It might do him some good. I would have to look around first. Make sure this Dori knows his business."

"If you're going to beat your head against a wall," Balin said quietly, dipping his quill in the ink pot and returning to his work, "I've found it's best to keep it at home."

Dwalin's only answer was a glower.

Balin sighed and measured out a dose of pounce, which he sprinkled across the paper. "It's a perfectly nice establishment. The host was very hospitable. If you insist on going, do not bring your pub manners."

"Hall manners?"

"House manners."

Dwalin's frown turned puzzled. "Where's the fun in that?"

"If I have to tell you," Balin said, looking at Dwalin wryly, "I do not think you'll see the appeal."

* * *

The sun was glaring overhead, sharp in the watery grey sky by the time Dori finally finished his marketing. His feet were dragging as badly as Ori's as they trudged home. They reached a fork, and he turned onto Locket Street almost without thinking. He had more than once been tempted to show Ori his shop, but the timing had never been entirely right, and there was the matter of sticky, clumsy hands to think about. 

Besides, he told himself, there would be questions that he was not quite ready to answer. And perhaps it was nice, having someplace that was only his, if only for a while.

His eyes swept proudly over the shop and then widened when they fell upon the overstuffed mail-box.

He stopped in his tracks, a silly smile spreading across his face. 

" _Dori_ ," Ori complained, sounding very tired and unhappy. 

"Just a moment, pet," Dori said, and he let go of Ori's hand long enough to gather his messages. He slipped them into his basket and after a moment of juggling his parcels once more, set off back down the street without further comment.

Ori followed sulkily, kicking a pebble along as they walked. It skipped and leapt over the cobblestones, occasionally ricocheting off Dori's boot. 

Dori bit back the urge to scold his brother and took a deep breath instead.

"I need to bake some biscuits for work," he said.

Ori peeped up at him suspiciously.

"If you want to help after your nap," Dori said, "we can keep a few for the biscuit jar."

For a moment, Ori was silent. He kicked the pebble very hard, sending it bouncing out of sight. 

"Promise?" he finally asked.

Dori squeezed his hand. "I promise."


	6. The Full Course (Bofur/Dori, Bathing)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bofur arrives for his much-anticipated appointment, and Dori discovers that his troublesome little brother's friend has hidden charms.

Bofur turned up on the front step of the Amethyst with pleasing punctuality on the morning of his appointment. He was a charming sight, dressed in his good suit of clothes with his hair neatly plaited and his face freshly scrubbed. A cheeky grin bloomed the moment he set eyes upon Dori, and he bounced once on his toes in barely concealed excitement before bowing with a flourish.

"Morning, Dori!" 

"Good morning, Bofur," Dori replied, making a bow of his own. As he dipped, he could not help but notice that Bofur's boots were immaculate, bless him. "Won't you come in?"

The morning chill was soon shut away behind them as they retreated into the sitting room. Dori had built up the fire, and with the oven cooling from the morning's baking, all was snug and sweet-smelling throughout the shop. The scones were still hot in their basket, and a few sprigs of pink dawn curved over the edge of a glass vase in the centre of the table. The pot of lemon balm tea stood steeped and ready to pour.

"Place looks grand," Bofur said, although he was not in fact looking at any of the minor decorating choices that had touched the shop since his first visit, but rather at Dori. His gaze idled long upon the sumptuous robe.

"Why, thank you," Dori said, stepping behind him to take his coat. 

He proceeded to the coat stand and from the corner of his eye saw Bofur glancing about anxiously for an instant before spotting the money box. Two sidling steps brought Bofur over to the mantel, where he peeked surreptitiously inside the box to see the colour of the coins. A look of relief crossed his face, and he hurriedly slipped in a piece of silver to join its kin. 

"Sit down," Dori urged. "Make yourself comfortable."

Bofur smartly obeyed, and his face lit up as he gazed upon the spread of baking and preserves with the air of one who still remembered vividly the wandering years of earthbread and cram. 

Dori joined him, sitting down on the other side of the table with a gracious smile. He split two scones and spread the clotted cream and blackberry jam with a heavy hand. Next came two cups of tea, one of which was fixed with enough honey to stand a spoon in. A fellow was entitled to his preferences when it came to his cup, even if it was an affront to good taste. To Dori's own personal credit, he refrained from so much as a peep as Bofur once again made gross abuse of the saucer.

Everything about this endeavour still had the shine of newness, but Dori was beginning to think that he could come to like early appointments best. There was something particularly pretty about the eastern light shining through the little window, setting the table aglow. Ori had been seen off to his lessons and would be safely occupied until the late afternoon. All his morning's hard work had come to fruition, baked to a delectable golden-brown and served to an appreciative guest. The day stretched happily ahead of him, full of company and cooking.

The talk he and Bofur shared was small and would not have been out of place in either of their mother’s kitchens: neighbourhood gossip for the most part, and commentary on the weather, and a brief acknowledgement of their respective brothers. Bofur's napkin could have seen better use, but the occasional noisy slurp was not too difficult to bear when bracketed by the adorable smiles sent his way across the table. Dori felt his face warm. Bofur Scur's son had grown up rather well, it seemed. Who would have thought it?

"Would you like another scone?" Dori asked, when Bofur had put away his third and two cups of tea besides.

"Oh no, thank you," Bofur said politely, leaning back in his chair and patting his belly. "They were tasty, though."

There was no good reason the dishes couldn't wait, no good reason at all, but when Bofur gave a darling fidget, Dori could not resist letting the anticipation linger. He deftly loaded up the tea tray and cleared the table, putting a certain swing in his walk as he made his way into the kitchen. He heard Bofur abruptly straighten up in his seat. The curtains swished shut behind him.

He stacked the porcelain carefully in the basin. The sounds of further fidgeting came through the curtain, followed by the scuff of a chair being pushed back. Nervous pacing. The huff of breath being checked for sweetness. Dori leaned back and counted to ten before stepping back into the sitting room.

To his delight, he was set upon the moment his foot crossed the threshold. 

Bofur started forward with a determined set of his shoulders. Three long strides closed the distance between them, and then Dori was seized about the waist, pulled close, and kissed soundly. His legs gave a little wobble as his mouth melted beneath Bofur's. 

Oh my.

It was a very good kiss, particularly considering that passionate swoops inevitably involved a little nose-bumping and stepping on toes. Bofur's lips were hot, and his moustache was thick and soft. He did not kiss like a novice, but there was something endearingly clumsy in the eager way he pushed Dori up against the wall. 

Dori wrapped his arms around Bofur's neck and sagged obligingly in his arms. There was certainly something to be said for initiative. Sparks leapt in his belly, catching easily as Bofur's hips rocked against his own. His bottom was squeezed, which seemed a particularly eloquent argument in the moment, and Dori was very nearly persuaded to slide down to the floor and drag Bofur with him. 

That would, however, be a far more hurried meal than what the Amethyst advertised, and Dori was well aware that a piece of silver took up more room in a miner's purse than in a merchant's. He shouldn't like to see Bofur leave unimpressed. 

"Let me..." Dori began in the narrow space between two hard kisses. 

Bofur's only response was a hum of vague interest as his lips moved down to Dori's neck.

"Oh," Dori gasped, leaning back against the wall and baring his throat for a moment. He tried again, rather more firmly this time. "Let me draw you a bath."

"I washed my hands," Bofur murmured as he laid down a line of hot, soft kisses just below Dori's beard. "Scrubbed under my fingernails too."

That was certainly a start. Dori allowed several more kisses and a delicious nibble along his neck before gently catching the back of Bofur's collar. Bofur made a small sound of disappointment but withdrew at the smallest pull. 

"You'll like this bath," Dori promised. His fingertips stroked entreatingly down the back of Bofur's neck. 

Bofur shivered, the blacks of his eyes very large this close up. "Is it a dirty bath?"

"It's a very clean bath," Dori corrected him. "Very hot. Very wet. Very slippery."

Bofur's smile turned dreamy. "Brilliant."

Glóin had commissioned fine work. The bath in question was no glorified washtub, but a full sunken pool that would not have been out of place at the public bathing house. It was only big enough for three at a squeeze, but featured several tiered steps and a carved pattern of seashells, with taps cast to resemble fanciful fishes. Bofur let out a whistle of admiration. 

"Let's get you out of those clothes," Dori said, running the water hot.

Their hands bumped together as Bofur insisted on helping with his buttons. Off came his shirt and under-vest, and then Bofur danced an awkward jig out of his trousers around the unmistakable rise of a half-stand. He was rather nicely made beneath his clothes, on the skinny side perhaps, but with no lack of handsome black hair all over.

Bofur kissed him again the moment his socks and small-clothes were stowed, more urgently this time, and Dori was forced to give him a mild smack on the bottom for being a damnable distraction. 

"Into the tub," he ordered with mock sternness.

Bofur let out a merry laugh and climbed in. A properly appreciative expression crossed his face as the warm water enveloped him, and he immediately scooted down to the second step, sinking in up to his chin. 

"Didn't I tell you?" Dori said, reaching over to shut the tap. 

"There's room for two," Bofur pointed out, waggling his eyebrows hopefully.

Dori hid a smile. "If you insist."

He turned half away, quite aware of holding Bofur's full attention as he unfastened his robe. It was not to be admitted to anyone, but he had practiced this. A dwarf could be born with grace, his uncle had often told him, but elegance was a skill to be cultivated. His fingers moved lightly over his buttons, and he did not let the front part carelessly in his wake, but teased it open to the most flattering angle. The robe slipped from his shoulders just as he completed his turn towards the clothes peg, and then with one neat swish he drew it off entirely.

There was a splash as Bofur scrambled forward for a better view.

Dori loftily affected not to notice Bofur's covetous stare as he returned to the tub. He steered him back into his seat and then settled in behind him on the step above. 

"Hullo." Bofur tilted his head back onto Dori's shoulder, looking up at him with amusement. 

Dori kissed his temple and refrained from pointing out that Bofur had obviously neglected to wash behind his ears. He reached for a fluffy washcloth and the fresh bar of honey-scented soap and soon had a heap of luxurious lather with which to correct the situation.

"Oh," Bofur sighed, his head dropping forward.

True to his word, Dori was very thorough. He took care with every inch, from Bofur's shoulders to the tips of his fingers, and from the nape of his neck down to his tailbone. Bofur proved a lovely armful, happy to be nudged this way and that, and moaning sweetly when Dori took his time in sensitive places. Only the short life of hot water and the threat of wrinkled fingers kept Dori from tarrying on the parts he liked best. Bofur's cock was quite a nice length when drawn to full stand, and his stones were quick to draw taut. His nipples darkened, rosy and stiff when they were worried with the washcloth, and the backs of his knees were surprisingly ticklish. 

"May I wash your hair?" Dori asked.

"You can do whatever you like," Bofur replied, sounding a touch out of breath.

It was a pleasure to unbind those silly plaits. There wasn't a dwarf alive, no matter how handsome, who could look remotely dashing in plaits. He strongly suspected that Bofur had started wearing them when it had become evident that the Ironfist blood in his line had won out, giving him the full-mustachioed, bare-cheeked profile of those eastern folk. Dori was inclined to a thick beard himself, but there was something to be said for a distinction. Besides, it would be such a shame to cover up those dimples. 

He let the black locks fall between his fingers, a little envious of how sleek they were. He had to braid his own hair straight from the bath to keep it that smooth.

"That's nice," Bofur murmured, lying back into the cradle of Dori's hands.

Dori gently dunked him and then reached for the comb. There was nary a knot to work out, but he let the wide horn teeth scratch lightly over Bofur's scalp with every stroke, making little lines of gooseflesh spring up at the back of Bofur's neck. Three drops of lavender oil were added next, and he worked it through for a full fifty strokes until he had two handfuls of silk to braid. 

He had a feeling that Bofur would only brush his hair out upon returning home, and so he settled for a tidy rope braid that would keep out of the way. He added another drop of oil to Bofur's moustache and stroked his chin while Bofur wiggled like a hound getting a good scratch behind the ear.

"If you get me any cleaner," Bofur confided, "I'm going to pop like a cork."

"We can't have that," Dori said. "Not yet, at least."

A brisk towelling ensued, with special care taken below the waist. He then laced his fingers with Bofur's and led him firmly to bed.

The intention had been to treat Bofur to a leisurely suck, but he soon found himself tumbled down with an urgency that suggested another preference. A startled cry left his throat, but he was not at all displeased by the speed with which Bofur got him on his back and manoeuvred between his knees. It would seem that Bofur was no more a novice at tupping than he was at kissing, and little wonder. He was a fine toymaker, but he was obviously too much the social sort to be married to his work. 

"Can I?" Bofur asked, his hands running eagerly up and down Dori's thighs. "Have a go, I mean?"

"Oh, yes please," Dori said, reaching for the little vial of oil he had left on the bedside table. 

He was quite willing to butter himself up, but when he saw Bofur's eyes brighten, he delivered the vial into a waiting palm. It was certainly no chore to lie back against the pillows with his knees up and give himself over to several hot kisses and a slick caress. It took a little longer than Dori might have needed, but he was hardly going to chide Bofur for having a care. His neck was nibbled and his chest hungrily nuzzled as Bofur slid one finger inside him, and then two. At one point, the vial was fumbled, but Bofur managed to snatch it up with a muttered oath before too much was spilt.

"Sorry," he said, laughing as he shot a sheepish look up at Dori. "Sorry. It's only that I've been thinking about this since I was forty."

"Forty?" Dori asked in surprise. The less than welcome image of a far wispier Bofur with a far wispier moustache flickered in his memory. "Really?"

Bofur cheeks reddened. "Ah, well. There I'd be, palling around with Nori. And there you'd be, pretty as anything, not giving either of us the time of day."

"Because you were forty," Dori pointed out, his leg hooking around Bofur's waist. 

"I'm not forty any more," Bofur said with a grin and a significant look downwards.

"No, you most certainly are not," Dori agreed, his voice catching slightly on the last word as Bofur's touch found its mark. 

Their joining was graceless but sweet. It took a fair bit of nudging and arranging of knees, and Bofur slipped out on the first few thrusts, but soon enough they found their rhythm. Dori moaned happily, stroking Bofur's arms and shoulders as he moved inside him. His arousal rekindled, pleasure building with every thrust. 

He was partial to being tupped on his back, even if it was trickier to get a hand on himself that way. No two faces were alike in their pleasure, and he took as much satisfaction in watching as from the soft song of heavy breathing and shifting bedclothes. Some fellows looked hungry during the act, intent and keen, eyes locked upon his own. There were the ones who looked half-mad, shaking, panting, clinging to him. Some knit their brows as though in pain when they came, and some shivered in open-mouthed bliss when he raked his fingernails down their backs, and some turned red from the dip of their navels to the tips of their ears.

Bofur, splendidly, seemed to laugh. There was nothing mean about it, but rather a sort of disbelief at his own luck. His silly smile was contagious, and Dori found himself warm with merriment as he grasped Bofur tighter between his knees and rocked with him. It didn't last very long, not as long as Dori would have had it at least, but there was flattery there too in the way that Bofur's hips got away from him.

"Oh, you feel so good," Bofur whispered. "Oh..."

He watched as Bofur's expression seemed to shiver in bliss. His breathing frayed, and with another soft laugh and a few good thrusts that nudged Dori backwards into the pillows, Bofur came inside him. Dori stroked his back and hummed his appreciation at such a sweet show. 

Bofur sank down slowly on top of him. "Just a minute," he mumbled into Dori's chest. "Give me a minute."

Dori was perfectly content to lie awhile beneath his warm weight. He put his hand to the back of Bofur's neck, his thumb rubbing slowly back and forth. His cock was pressed against Bofur's belly, quite perky and throbbing softly to the beat of his pulse. In a happy turn of events, when a minute had passed, Bofur shimmied down to take him in his mouth. 

Bless him.

What followed was more enthusiastic than artful. Bofur was a little too quick with him, a little too sloppy, but Dori was in no mood to chide. He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting past the sensation of too much and giving in to the demanding, messy pull of Bofur's lips and tongue. He clutched at Bofur's shoulders as a wave of pleasure rose up in him, and he crossed his heels behind Bofur's back, pressing down as his hips rolled. 

He thought he might need the added nudge of fingers to finish, but to his faint surprise the slurping that had so vexed him at the table proved just the thing in bed. The wicked sound of it as Bofur took his cock in deep made his stones draw up hard. 

"If you need a handkerchief..." he said before biting his lip and gesturing to the bedside table.

Bofur only hummed and bobbed his head recklessly, and when Dori came in his mouth with a lusty moan, he swallowed quite obligingly. He kissed Dori's stomach afterwards and beamed up at him. 

"Boot me out when my time's up," he said, shimmying back up to flop his head down on Dori's chest. "I don't mind."

Dori was still tingling pleasantly from his spending, and he patted Bofur fondly on the back. As it happened, he had booked a long morning, unsure as to whether he would need to mop the floor again before his later appointment. He rather liked a good cuddle himself, and he found he was in no mood to move anytime soon.

"Have a nap, if you like," he said, and reminded himself to wrap up that last scone for the road. "I'll wake you in a little while."


	7. A Tasting Menu (Dori/Various, Assorted Acts)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sampling of the delights on offer at the Amethyst Tea House.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This section contains descriptions of assorted sexual activities including dirty talk, d/s, and sex toys (the last of which is shamelessly stolen from [Fruity_Bouquet](http://fruity-bouquet.tumblr.com/post/61722621654/bedroombondage-one-of-our-fans-was-the-first)).

**Food and Drink**

_Morning: Tea, Baking of the Day_

"Are you sure I can't tempt you?" Dori asked innocently.

"Oh no," Glóin protested, although his wandering eye said differently. He was warming his hands over the stove, having gone up to see the roof after last night's storm. "My wife..."

Dori flipped a tattie cake. It sizzled, sending up a waft of savoury steam. Glóin stared fixedly. 

"...my wife's got the porridge pot started at home."

Dori did not press, but only drizzled a little more butter on the griddle. 

"Although," Glóin said eventually, "I suppose Freyli couldn't fuss if I brought her home one too, now could she?"

 

_Afternoon: Tea or Wine, Cold Spread (special requests available with two days’ notice)_

The potted venison lay untouched, and so did the bread and preserves and the custard tarts.

Dori sat astride Balin's lap, robe gaping and his cock rubbing cheekily against a fine wool tunic. They had got as far as the wine, at least, and he could taste it on Balin's lips.

The butter was going to melt, he wished to point out, but another kiss forestalled him. The bread was going to harden, and maybe they should pop the cork back into the bottle...

Balin's hand slid down to his bottom and squeezed.

Oh, sod it. The food could wait.

 

_Night: Tea or Wine (mulled cider available in season), Assorted Nibbles_

There was a knack to knowing when to take things to the bedroom. 

"...and I said, do I look like I can spin straw to gold? You should have seen his face, I swear..."

Dori listened to Egil's grousing about his day with all the patience of one who liked to stay abreast of town gossip. He patted Egil's head where it lay in his lap and then fed him another candied walnut. The fire burned merrily, and Egil's eyelids slowly sank as he spoke.

There was a knack to knowing when to keep things in the sitting room, too.

 

**Hospitality**  


_Kissing, All Varieties_

Dori really was awfully fond of sucking cock. 

He wasn't fussed about the matter of size, although there was something to be said for that just-right stretch of the jaw. Neither was he picky about the where: laid out on the bed, or kneeling on the floor with a hand in his robe, or perched upon that lovely footstool. 

What mattered was the warm skin against his lips and the taste of salt. Their hands in his hair, if they were very good and didn't tug. And oh, the _sounds_ they made.

Even a host was allowed the occasional gluttony. 

 

_Tupping (Anvil or Hammer), All Positions_

It was always the merchants who got silly about getting tupped. It was a strange thing, for as a class they were usually quite bold in bargaining for what they desired. If anything, Dori might have expected warriors to put up the most fidgeting, and yet in his experience the burliest of hired axes rolled over like puppies if they were so inclined.

Merchants required watching. Thighs inched apart. Backs arched ever so slightly. Breath was held as Dori's fingers crept down. 

There, his wordless manner said when he finally pressed them beneath him. It can be our little secret.

 

_Massage (Partial or to Completion)_

"I think that side's done," Bofur said, wiggling, his words muffled in a pillow as Dori worked on his back with slippery hands. 

"It most certainly is not," Dori said, digging his thumbs into a particularly stubborn knot. "What on earth have you been doing to yourself?"

"Working," Bofur groaned. "It's fine."

Dori clucked his tongue. "You won't be able to do what I have in mind with a sore back."

He flexed his fingers, wrenching a sound from Bofur that seemed mostly pleasure, and set about finishing the job. There were no such things as half-measures in his shop. 

 

_Hot Baths (Includes Bar Soap, Partial or Complete Massage, and Grooming of Hair and Beard)_

Dori was not averse to being ravished in the bath—grabbed and groped, pushed up against the hard stone and kissed, mussed, bitten upon the neck and shoulders as his head tipped back, his hair wet and heavy, hands scrambling for purchase on slippery skin and the edge of a stair as the water sloshed over in a tidal wave of passion and spilt across the floor to the sound of his own happy moans. 

That said, the next guest who dragged him into the soapy water while he was still wearing his robe was getting the laundry bill. 

 

_Saucy Conversation_

"Oh, harder..."

In Dori's experience naughty talk during the act was best used sparingly and to good taste. A peppering of praise. A pinch of pleading.

It was best whispered, hotly: how very big, how very slick, how very badly he wanted it. Gooseflesh springing up beneath his fingertips. Arms tightening around him. A cock surging against his stomach, leaving the first sticky smear.

It was best savoured, for Dori would never tire of watching the most salty-mouthed warriors blush above their beards when he called them sweethearts and darlings and asked very nicely to be filled with their spunk.

 

_Discipline: Scolding and Spanking Available Upon Request_

They inevitably brought the menu with them, nudging it across the table with what they seemed to fancy was great stealth—the last item marked with a check or an x.

"Halfdan, _elbows_."

The hulking captain of the guard straightened up, sliding his elbows off the table. There they remained for the mere space of two sips before they rudely returned. 

Dori threw down his napkin with a huff. "Oh, you are incorrigible!"

The only difficulty he had in subduing the good captain was hiding his smile as he dragged him off by the ear for a thorough thrashing. 

 

_Devices (House Equipment Only, Except by Negotiation)_  
 _Current Inventory: Soft Gags, Soft and Hard Restraints (Wrist, Ankle, Intimate), Carvings of Various Sizes, Chains for Fixed Jewellery, Beads, Feathers, Leather of All Sorts_

The nicest thing about Dori's policy regarding toys was that he soon found himself gifted with all manner of treasures for the house collection. 

Aghi, for instance, worked in glass. This latest addition was a rose-tinted Practicality, of delicious girth at its head and delightful design at its flare, with an ingenious (and beautiful) silk flower suspended within the bulb at the base, placed prettily so as to be displayed when it was secured. 

Dori traced its cool, supple curves in anticipation.

Well, it would simply be rude not to already be wearing it when Aghi next came to call.


	8. Slippery Business (Dori/Óin, Prostate Milking, Medical Kink)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dori receives a hands-on demonstration of Óin's newest concoction.

"Oh my," he babbled, "oh my, oh gracious..."

His eyes were pressed tightly shut, and his toes curled as he was shaken by another shiver. With the sweet, heavy scent of almond oil hanging in the air, Dori felt as much like a frangipane tart hot from the oven as he did a sick-room patient. He was naked and trembling, lying on the kitchen table with his feet braced against Óin's chest and his knees bent back just as far as they could go, and he was feeling distinctly overwhelmed.

This was in fact his first time playing Doctor My Wounds with an actual healer. In his previous experience, the game was only good for a grope and a giggle before giving way to the usual progression of passionate kisses and a good old-fashioned tupping. Today, however, had brought a generous demonstration of a legitimate anatomical marvel, delivered by perfectly professional hands that were firm and to the point, and which had been thoughtfully warmed over the stove before going anywhere near Dori's bottom.

"Oh my..."

It was only one finger, that was the mischief of it. Dori had once or twice before been left senseless by playing anvil to a hefty hammer, or by the slow and careful stretch of three fingers, or four, or even five. One finger seemed hardly sporting, and yet it had found his pearl unerringly and was working steadily, ceaselessly, exactingly back and forth with the apparent aim of reducing Dori to wobbly, whimpering pleasure.

"Oh bugger all!" Dori blurted out as yet another shiver rattled him, and he promptly clapped a hand over his mouth in horror of his own loose tongue.

Óin chuckled, and the sound of it was the exact opposite of professional. He patted Dori's hip and continued his wicked treatment, his other palm softly nudging Dori's stones with each entreating push of his finger.

"Nearly there, now."

Dori didn't dare look. He couldn't. But he had to. His hands, gripping the edge of the table above his head, tightened until the wood creaked. He squinted open his eyes and craned his neck.

His head thumped back onto the table. Oh my.

He was not nearly as hard as the deep, persistent throbbing in his loins would have led him to believe, and the incongruity between the vision and the sensation made him dizzy. He very much wanted to touch himself, but Óin had instructed him to lie still, and Dori was not a natural rule-breaker—except, of course, when that was the point of the game. Gently flushed, his cock curved half-laxly, smeared wet at the head and positively _dripping_.

Dori had always been prone to a little stickiness when properly excited, but this went far beyond the usual bead or two. Óin's finger brought about another hot wave, and as Dori shivered and gasped, a long, lewd dribble of clear seed dripped onto his belly. His nether hair was nearly soaked through, glinting, and his skin gleamed with little smears.

His toes curled again, grasping at the fabric of Óin's shirt. He shook, and this time the tremors were hard enough to make his teeth chatter. Óin's hand came to rest on his damp abdomen and pressed down firmly.

"Take a deep breath in," Óin ordered.

So authoritative was his tone that Dori obeyed without thinking, forcing in a great lungful of air and feeling all the muscles in his stomach and thighs twang like a loosed bowstring.

"And out...there we go."

He breathed out slowly, finding clear-headed reprieve only for a moment before Óin's hand pressed down harder, just above the ridge of bone, his fingers digging into something obscure that sent a hot, full shock through Dori's body. He cried out, his head swimming as the table seemed to tilt backwards beneath him. Óin's hand shifted, and then a pressure came just behind Dori's stones, and the long, thrumming pleasure inside him grew even more impossible. 

"Oh!" The sound that emerged from his throat was very high and strangled to his own ears. It came again: "Oh!" and "oh!" and "oh!" as his feet grasped and his hips lifted. He caught a glimpse, before his eyes screwed shut again, of the first thread of pearly-white streaming down from the slit of his cock.

His spending was singular, achingly slow and hard, like being crushed between two heavy stones. It rolled through him, grinding him down, stealing the breath from his lungs and driving up a groan from deep in his belly. The low sound hitched into a sob by the end of it as every bit of seed within him came and came, and he arched, pushing against Óin's chest—caught around the thighs and held safely before he could shove himself straight off the table—and feeling his stones seem to wring themselves dry.

He gave a frantic thrash in surprise when his cock was finally touched. Óin's hand was cool against his fevered skin and grasped him tightly. Dori's throat closed around a little sound of agonised relief as he was stroked from base to tip, that inarguable grip milking out the very last drops of spunk. 

"There," he heard Óin say, as if from very far away. "All in good working order. Hale as a stud pony."

Dori managed to open his eyes. He was panting, staring up at the ceiling in stunned completion. His gaze flickered to Óin, who looked altogether too pleased with himself, and he tried to muster a censorious glare but found that he could not feel his face. His heartbeat was pounding in his ears, and he could feel the blood rushing through his veins, pulsing in his fingertips and his toes. His loins continued to throb, echoed inside him by a well-used soreness that one finger surely should not have accomplished. Spunk trickled down as his belly rose and fell dramatically with each breath, thick and messy and _so much of it_. 

He tried to sit up, but the attempt was far too premature and his legs gave out, falling limply over the edge of the table. He settled for taking hold of Óin's beard with one hand, winding it around his fist, and giving a good tug.

"I'll take two bottles of the almond oil," Dori said, his voice hoarse but as steady as he could make it. 

He cleared his throat and closed his eyes, gathering his strength to get his legs back up. He wrapped them around Óin's hips and drew him forward in frank but clumsy permission. His hole twitched, and he strongly suspected a tupping on top of such a spending was going to make him swoon. What a marvellous finish.

"And afterwards," he added, "you are going to show me exactly how to do that."


	9. Table Manners I (Dori/Dwalin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin, scouting out the place on Thorin's behalf, does not in fact bring his best manners to the Amethyst. Dori is forced to make an example of him.

Dwalin son of Fundin had the unfortunate distinction of being the first guest forcibly ejected from the Amethyst Tea House. 

It was a pity, but it had to be done.

The visit had begun promisingly enough. The weather was brisk and blustery in Locket Street, and the snowy, wind-swept afternoon was just the sort for staying indoors with a blazing fire, a hearty meal, and good company. Dori was puttering about, laying the final touches on luncheon, when a heavy knock sounded. He set down the last plate, straightened his beard, and put on a smile before answering the door. 

His guest announced himself with a bow. "Dwalin, at your service."

Dori's smile warmed as he bowed in return. Dwalin cut a very fine figure in his winter cloak, his brow serious and his eyes sharp. He was a giant of a fellow, nearly as tall as a man. Not quite as classically handsome as his elder brother, perhaps—lanky as he was—but oh my, there was no shortage of appeal in those broad shoulders and wealthy display of battle scars and warrior's ink. In truth, Dori had been looking forward to this more intimate introduction ever since Dwalin's inquiry had arrived. Lovely Mr. Balin had proven a delight to host, and Dori had high hopes that being reared at the same hearth had endowed Dwalin with the same gifts of charm and sweet manners. 

Those hopes lived only for a minute or two—just long enough for him to usher Dwalin inside and take his cloak and hat and subsequently attempt to relieve him of his weapons. 

"The dagger stays," Dwalin growled.

Dori's wrist was caught half an inch from Dwalin's belt in a grip as inarguable as steel. The dagger in question was a baselard the size of a child's sword with a long polished-bone handle. It was obviously well-made—an Ereboran antique, if Dori was not mistaken—and under other circumstances it would have called for admiration, but this was as much a private residence as it was a shop, and manners were manners. 

"Oh yes," Dori said brightly, drawing himself up to his full height (half a foot short of Dwalin's though it was). He twisted his hand free from Dwalin's grasp with one hard wrench and smiled with his teeth. Always make a guest feel at home, his uncle had said, but don't let them think for one moment that it's a bachelor's lodgings. "Your dagger is very welcome to stay—on the mantel. Or else it may go home and stay with a minder."

Dwalin narrowed his eyes.

Dori's smile grew sharper.

The appointment might have ended right there and then and saved them both some time, but after a long moment, Dwalin stepped back with a snort and unfastened the sheath from his belt. Dori took it with a respectful nod and laid the weapon on the mantel. He then returned for Dwalin's purse, from which he extracted his fee. A whisper of caution made him keep one eye on his guest as he slipped the coin into the money box. Dwalin had placed his hands upon his hips and was looking about the sitting room with an expression of critical appraisal.

Dori dissuaded a small, anxious frown from settling upon his brow. He was not about to have the elegance and good taste of his shop brought into question by someone in shaggy trousers, even if said someone had come of age in the impeccable hall of King Thrór. The Blacklock-style couch and brushed warg pelt rug were certainly nothing to sneer at, and Dori made the generous decision to put Dwalin's expression down to an unfortunate squint.

Such charity proved to be misplaced.

"You must get all sorts in here," Dwalin commented, glancing over his shoulder at him with eyebrows raised in patently false innocence.

Dori hummed in polite agreement as he dusted the snow from Dwalin's hat and set it in front of the fire to dry.

"Mostly miners, I should think," Dwalin added. "Herdsmen." He paused thoughtfully and then added, as though he were being kind: "It's even nice enough for the smiths."

Only the timely application of teeth to tongue kept back an ill-chosen _I will have you know—!_ Dori was silent for a moment, seized by suspicion. If he did not assuredly know better, for they were two civilized fellows, he might be inclined to think that Dwalin meant to provoke him into boasting about his client list. 

"It is nice enough for warriors, I should hope," he finally replied, diplomatically.

Dwalin grunted. 

Dori drew one line in chalk on a tally-board in the back of his mind. His pleasant mood was rapidly fading. He felt quite at a loss, for enthusiasm had thus far smoothed over any rough spots with his guests. Dwalin had brought a very queer manner with him, one that Dori did not trust at all. And he found he did not like having someone he did not trust in his shop.

"Come here," Dori said, attempting to get his hands back on the reins.

To his relief, Dwalin proved biddable and came to him at once. He did not, on principle, believe in sweets before luncheon, but nothing helped a graceless conversation like putting mouths to better use. He wound his fingers in Dwalin's beard and drew him down. For all his size and odd suspicions, Dwalin was easily steered. 

Oh yes, now that was much better. Dwalin's big arms came around him, and his lips pressed down with care. He was delightfully warm and sturdy, and though he was a tad rough as he pushed Dori back against the wall and deepened the kiss, his obvious strength made Dori shiver. 

Perhaps they had simply started off on the wrong foot, Dori thought as his shoulders relaxed. He shifted, enjoying a wiggle against a thigh the width of a tree trunk. His teeth plucked at Dwalin's lower lip, and he was just considering moving the entanglement to the couch when Dwalin drew back, his eyes dark and his lips flushed, and said:

"What's the queerest thing someone's asked you for?"

A second line of chalk flicked over the slate. He was certain of it now: Dwalin thought he had a loose tongue. Of all the cheek!

No rule stood above that of discretion in the proper operation of a tea house. Dori had not entirely understood the breadth and depth of it as a youth, startled now and then by the ferocity with which his uncle safeguarded his guests' confidence. While it had been easy enough to grasp that Uncle Vyri had counted among his clients some of the grandest figures of Erebor, it had taken his own growing circle of acquaintances to bring the knowledge home. There were private inclinations at which others might have a laugh. There were war wounds that needed a little careful handling.

"Whatever you'd like to ask me for, I can assure you I've heard it before."

It did not seem, however, that it was his own privacy Dwalin wished to safeguard.

"Tell me a tale," Dwalin said with all the slyness inexpertly employed by a certain younger brother trying to stay up past his bedtime. His thigh pressed more firmly between Dori's as his lips did something utterly unfair along the side of Dori's neck. "I'll pay you well for it."

Dori pushed Dwalin back and scowled up at him sternly. "I do not talk about my guests, Mr. Dwalin."

That ought to have been enough. It had to be enough, for Dori was a professional and entirely due the respect of his craft.

Yet Dwalin merely nodded at his purse where it sat on the mantel. "Name your price."

The third strike screeched against the slate, and anger the likes of which had surely never been seen in so genteel a place as Locket Street rose within Dori in a hot, wrathful rush. No, not cheek: the insult! A jeweller would have the brute's hand for the insinuation that gold could incite him to counterfeit! A warrior would take the cad's head for the mere whisper that an enemy could buy him!

Dori grasped his trespasser by the back of his trousers and immediately thereafter demonstrated that not only did he have no such price, but the very asking came with a full refund and a free boot to the bum as well. Dwalin sailed out the front door and landed with a cry of surprise in the middle of the street. Onlookers paused in the middle of their business and stared as Dori threw Dwalin's cloak and hat and money after him. The purse missed Dwalin by an inch when the scoundrel ducked, but the pommel of the sheathed dagger found its mark, hitting Dwalin squarely between the eyes. 

His last sight of Dwalin (purported) son of Fundin was the scant second of a thoroughly stunned expression of admiration and a grin that was a day late and a penny short. Dori was already slamming the door hard enough to shake the snow off the eaves, and then he rammed the deadbolt home. Then he stood by the threshold, trembling faintly, and resisted the urge to look out the window.

When the laughter outside had faded, he turned back to the sitting room and regarded the table glumly. All that effort gone to waste, his afternoon ruined, and not a coin in the money box for his trouble. He sighed, wishing for the thousandth time for his uncle's counsel, and then sat down and proceeded to eat both generous portions of bread, cheese, honey, and ham.

Surely, he thought, fuming—surely Mr. Balin's parents had been cruelly deceived by the midwife and left with a swaddled troll.


	10. Chicken Soup (Dori, Ori)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dori takes the day off to tend to his sick little brother and shares with him a bit of family history.

It was only the grippe, Dori reminded himself for the dozenth time. "Only the grippe"—good grief, as if anyone actually wanted to see their tiny brother poorly. Yet the walls of their home knew too well the sound of coughing and laboured breath, and every little rasp and sniffle made Dori's shoulders tense. He stood in the kitchen, his back to the door that led to his mother's empty room, and he traced a good-luck rune with his fingertip on the tabletop as he waited for the soup to come to a finish.

The kitchen was warm and stuffy from a morning of simmering, and at last, when the savoury scent had fully bloomed, Dori lifted the cover off the soup pot and ladled out a generous portion of chicken and barley and onions in a pool of golden broth. He placed the bowl upon a tray alongside a cup of ginger tea, and then he balanced the tray on his shoulder and climbed the ladder up to Ori's alcove.

Ori lay curled up in his blankets, red-nosed and breathing through his mouth.

"Lunch time," Dori called softly.

"Ng." Ori stirred, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

Dori set down the tray and put a clean handkerchief to Ori's nose.

"Blow," he said before Ori could snorfle back a headful of phlegm.

Ori obeyed and then looked at him in confusion. "How come you're not at work?"

He was all stuffed up, poor lamb. There shouldn't have been any b's in that sentence.

"I've taken the day off," Dori replied, folding up the handkerchief and retrieving the sodden one that had made its way down to the foot of the bedding.

Ori blinked, seemingly taken aback by the very idea. Little wonder, Dori supposed. Their mother had returned to her workshop three days after bringing Ori into the world, with a cradle set up beside the fire, and she had not missed a day of crafting until...well, until what had proven to be the very end.

"Eat your soup before it gets cold."

Still looking at him uncertainly, Ori picked up the spoon and had some soup. He made a small noise of contentment when the warm broth did its work on his throat.

Dori settled in beside him and stroked his hair, using the opportunity to feel his brow. No fever, thank goodness.

"Are you going to be in trouble?" Ori asked, slurping his soup.

"Why would I be in trouble, pet?" He nudged the bowl back into the middle of the tray. "Don't spill."

Ori paused, chewing on a mouthful of barley. "Because you're not at work."

"Don't be silly. That's why I have the shop now. This way I can be at home when you need me."

A doubtful frown lingered on Ori's brow. He was such a clever little thing, but sometimes Dori hadn't the faintest idea what was going on inside his head.

"Will your customers be angry?"

Dori tutted. "It would be no concern of yours if they were, but they aren't."

He'd only had one guest booked for the day, and Bofur had taken the rescheduling with his usual good cheer. Mind you, Dori wasn't at all certain that Bofur was capable of holding onto his money for three days after payday, but the situation was what it was, and if nothing else he would assuredly come calling again when next his purse was full.

"You could put a sign on the table," Ori said with his mouth full, mustering a reassuring show of appetite.

"A what?" Dori asked.

"A sign. Like Mistress Hildr puts on the table at her shop when she goes out. People could take their own tea and put their money in the box."

"Ah," Dori said. "Well, as it happens, it isn't really that sort of shop."

Ori looked at him expectantly, picking up the bowl to drink the last of the broth.

"My customers come to have tea with me," Dori said delicately. "Some of them live alone, and they like to have someone cook for them and keep them company for a little while."

Ori seemed to understand, nodding seriously. He held out his hands for the cup as Dori poured his tea.

"Do you tell them stories?"

"Sometimes," Dori said. He looked down at Ori. "Would you like a story?"

Ori nodded and tucked himself under Dori's arm. Dori could not keep the smile from his face. It had been months since Ori had willingly cuddled, and he was so relieved that he did not even comment when his shirt was besmirched by a runny nose. He gave Ori a little squeeze.

"Once upon a time, far to the east, there was a very wise queen—"

"I've already _heard_ that one," Ori said.

"Have you? How about this one? There once was a smith who had three sons, but he very much wanted a daughter—"

Ori sighed mournfully.

"You've heard that one too, I suppose," Dori said.

Ori nodded sadly. "Don't you know any new ones? It's dull being sick."

"I know it is." He thought for a moment. All the cradle stories he knew had been told to him by his mother, who had told them to Ori. The only other stories he knew were true ones... "Did Mam ever tell you about the time Uncle Vyri fought a duel?"

"Mama's brother?" Ori asked.

He sounded uncertain, and though that pained Dori, he supposed it was only to be expected. They had not spoken of Vyri often; no one spoke often of those lost at Dimrill Dale, as though if one person started, no one would be able to stop. On those rare occasions when they had, he and Mother, it was usually in the late hours, after Ori had long since been put to bed, taking tea in the kitchen as they worked at the mending or the knitting.

"That's right," Dori said. "He challenged the strongest warrior in all of Erebor to a duel, for the family's honour."

Ori's eyes widened. "How come?"

"Well," Dori said, "the warrior had insulted our mother."

Ginger tea threatened to slosh over the edge of its cup as Ori straightened up in indignation. "He said something bad about _Mama_?"

"He did," Dori said. "An untrue thing. Now, Mam might have challenged the blaggard herself, but she couldn't, so—"

"How come?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"How come she couldn't?"

"Oh. Because she was in the family way, as it happens."

Ori frowned. "With me?"

"No, with—"

"With Nori?"

"No, with me." He chose to ignore Ori's surprise. Either he could not imagine something having taken place so long ago, or worse, he had believed Nori's claim that Dori wasn't their brother at all but had come with the house. "Now are you telling this story or am I?"

Ori subsided, snuggling back up against Dori's side.

"It was winter," Dori continued, "and the coldest one for some time. No one wanted to go very far from their fires, and all the warriors in the hall were pleased to see Uncle Vyri when he came to visit one day."

He heard a questioning sound from below, but Ori held his tongue.

"Uncle Vyri was always gentle company," Dori explained. "He was a fine singer too. They thought there was going to be a party. But it wasn't so."

Ori nodded, apparently satisfied.

"Uncle Vyri didn't have any smiles for those in attendance, and he didn't greet any of his friends. He marched right up to the warriors' table. He was dressed in his best winter cloak—white mink—and he had a string of diamonds braided through his hair and beard, glittering like snow. Everyone stared at him."

Dori was embellishing a little here, for in no telling of the tale had anyone ever mentioned what Uncle Vyri was wearing when he made his challenge. And yet, when Dori thought of him in winter, dressed to impress, it was the mink and diamonds he imagined.

"He waited until everyone had fallen silent, and then, stepping before the blaggard, he announced that he demanded Usùgul."

Ori shivered.

"Of course, everyone laughed."

"They _laughed_?" Ori cried.

"They did. Uncle Vyri wasn't a warrior, you see. He didn't even hunt. But everyone knew he was serious when he took out a knife and cut a lock from his beard. Everyone went quiet then. He let the strands fall to the floor, and he said, 'You are a pig and a cad, and my kin and I won't share a city with you.' Now, if he had said this in private, the blaggard might have wiggled out of it, but here they were in front of half the best warriors in the mountain, and in front of the king himself. So there was nothing the blaggard could do to save face but cut a lock from his own beard and agree to meet him the next day at noon in the commons."

"Was he scared?" Ori asked. "Uncle Vyri, I mean. If he hadn't ever fought before?"

"Maybe a little," Dori said, "but he wasn't a coward. He had many friends who said that he should hurt himself, or say that he was ill, so they could fight in his stead. But he wouldn't hear of it. Mam was his baby sister, you see. Even though they didn't always get along, it made him very angry to see someone being cruel to her."

He tightened his arm around Ori.

"At the appointed hour, Uncle Vyri and the blaggard came to the commons. Everyone in Erebor had come to watch, even the king and queen, and the prince and princess. The shops closed up. People were ringed around, standing on each other's shoulders to see. Uncle Vyri presented himself to the head of the palace guards, who was judging the contest, and so did the blaggard.

"'Declare your weapons,' she said."

He added: "The fight has to be fair, you see, if you're seeking Usùgul. You can't have one fellow fighting bare-knuckled and another carrying a war hammer."

Ori nodded.

"'I'll fight with my sword,' the blaggard said.

"'Axes,' Uncle Vyri said, for he had brought Grandmother's."

"The ones you took away?" Ori asked.

"That's right," Dori said. "They're above the mantel in the shop. 'I brought axes,' Uncle Vyri said, 'and I brought my good looks.'"

Ori giggled.

"Everyone else laughed too," Dori said, smiling. "Everyone except the blaggard. But the two agreed to the terms."

He made Ori blow his nose again and then continued.

"They drew their weapons and the fight began. No one but the two were allowed inside the fighters' circle, but Mam elbowed everyone aside and ran around the outside, trying to help Uncle Vyri. He was strong, as strong as Mam, but he didn't know what he was doing. She was shouting for him to duck, swing left, swing right. Uncle Vyri ducked and swung, and he even landed a glancing blow. But the blaggard was the better fighter by far, and soon enough he was closing in."

Ori squirmed anxiously.

"The sword and axes clashed, and Uncle Vyri was driven back. One of the axes was knocked out of his hand. Things were looking dire. The blaggard drew his sword back to take a swing that would have taken Uncle Vyri's head clean off. But Uncle Vyri reached out and grabbed the blaggard by his shirt and pulled him off his balance."

"Did he break his nose?" Ori cried, pantomiming an adorable little head-butt.

"No," Dori said. "He kissed him."

Ori let out a scandalized squeak. "He _kissed_ him?"

"He kissed him," Dori said. "Right on the lips. The blaggard was so stunned that he froze where he stood. And that was when Uncle Vyri hit him in the head with an axe."

Ori's eyes were as round as saucers. "Did he kill him?"

"Well, no. He had the axe the wrong way around, but he cracked his skull and the blaggard went down. The head of the palace guard proclaimed Uncle Vyri the winner."

Ori clapped his hands in delight.

"Some of the blaggard's friends protested that it was unfair, like hitting a fellow below the waist. But the head of the palace guard ruled that Uncle Vyri had declared his pretty face as a weapon and the blaggard had agreed to it."

Ori wiggled with pleasure at the cleverness of it.

"The blaggard had his beard shorn off in front of everybody, and he was so ashamed that he left Erebor forever."

"Did they have a feast?" Ori asked.

"I don't know about that," Dori said, "but I heard that Uncle Vyri made Mam buy him strong drink to take the sour taste out of his mouth."

Ori sighed happily and wiped his nose on Dori's sleeve.

"Dori?" he asked.

"Yes, pet?"

He was braced for a question about Mam, but Ori only yawned and asked:

"Could I come visit Grandmother's axes, at your shop?"

Dori smiled and held the handkerchief for him again. Then he plumped up the pillows and tucked Ori in tenderly. "When you're feeling better, I would like that very much."


	11. The Outing (Dori, Ori, Balin/Dori, Bofur/Dori)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dori discovers that a day of leisure can be more tiring than it looks.

He didn't know how Mam had done it, let alone with three of them. They hadn't even made it out the door yet, and he was already exhausted.

"Dori, let’s _go_ …"

"The sooner you hold still, the sooner we can leave," Dori chided, adjusting Ori's hat and knotting his muffler. "Don't slouch, pet. Stand up straight and let me see you."

He licked his thumb and scrubbed a smudge off Ori's cheek. Honestly, you would think the child was magnetically attuned to dirt. He pulled the muffler up until only Ori’s eyes were exposed to the elements and inspected his handiwork. "There now, that's better. Are you sure you don't need the toilet again?"

"I'm sure," Ori said indistinctly behind the muffler.

"Because there's not going to be a toilet at the market."

"I'm _sure_." Ori slipped his mitten-clad hand into Dori’s and firmly led the way up the stairs and out the door.

The grippe had been thoroughly vanquished, and while Dori was unreservedly relieved to have his brother back in the pink of health, there was no keeping up with a small boy who had been confined to his bed for three days. In the marketplace, Dori's shoulder was nearly rattled out of joint as Ori darted from stall to stall with bushy-tailed interest, peeking behind curtains and standing on his tip-toes to peer into boxes and barrels.

"Slow down!" Dori cried, and "Don't touch—we haven't paid for that!" and when he was forced to be very stern: "If you don't behave yourself, we shall have to go straight home!"

Ori skidded to a halt in the icy street, wide-eyed and worried. 

Dori tried his best to hold a humourless expression, but soon after found himself opening his purse for a puppet show and a cup of hot apple cider. What ought to have been twenty minutes of errands ended up wheedled and cajoled into well over an hour, and both he and Ori were laden with parcels when at last they arrived at the Amethyst.

"Here we are," Dori announced, glad to come in out of the cold and let his nose thaw.

Ori looked around the sitting room, neck craning as he took in the sights. Dori had made certain to close off the back room, lock up anything intended for grown-up eyes only, and put the more delicate pieces of glass and porcelain out of the reach of little hands. What remained looked much like any other pretty, well-appointed sitting room in a private house.

"It's...fancy," Ori said. He did not sound terribly impressed.

Dori sighed. What else should he have expected? "Let's take our boots off and put the shopping away, and then we can have a look at Grandmother's axes."

Ori lit up. "Yes, please!"

Grandmother's axes were chief among the family treasures. You just didn’t get work like that these days. The handles were glossy ebony wood, fit for a dainty hand. The heads were steel-tipped iron, and the eyes were inlaid with boar tusk ivory carved with tessellated flowers. Even in their leanest years, his mother had never entertained the suggestion of selling them, and Dori was as careful as he'd be with a babe as he took down one axe and laid it in Ori's cradling arms.

"It's heavy!" Ori exclaimed, sagging beneath the weight of it

Dori helped him adjust his grip. "Careful, now."

The axe rose, wobbling. Dori steadied it, and Ori looked up with a bright smile—which dimmed slightly when he saw that the axe was not held aloft entirely under his own power.

"Can I have my own axe? A little one?" Ori asked.

"When you're older," Dori said.

"Can I have a sword?"

"When you're older."

"Can I have a knife? Herja has a knife."

"Herja is older."

It did seem to him that he'd had his own pocket-knife when he was Ori's age, and his first slingshot. But that had been in Erebor, accompanying his mother on hunting trips in the hills outside of Dale, and as terribly sweet as Ori would look with a little bean-shooter of his own, he was so young for his age, and distractible. What if he got lost? What if he wandered away and was trampled by a deer, or fell into the river, or was stolen away by elves? Goodness, no, a slingshot and knife would have to wait another year or two—or five. Or ten, really, to be on the safe side.

"Don't pout," Dori said. "You'll be big enough for axes before you know it."

Ori did not seem particularly cheered at such a promise, but he perked up when Dori proposed some baking. The stove was lit and the flour measured, and the afternoon passed gently in the preparation of a batch of wiggs. They sat together at the table, singing cheerful songs and rolling out the tender little pastries (half as they should be, and half without caraway and coriander owing to Ori's mistrust of spices). When the wiggs were put into the oven, Dori settled in with the accounts book and cut from it a piece of paper for Ori to draw on.

"Are they ready yet?" Ori asked, more than once.

"Not yet," Dori said, and then "Nearly there," and then "Count to one-hundred and they will be."

There was nothing better than buns served fresh from the oven, on that they agreed. They shared a pot of sweet almond tea and took turns at the butter dish. 

"Do you make wiggs for your customers?" Ori asked around a half-chewed mouthful.

"Sometimes," Dori said.

"There aren't a lot of tables," Ori said cannily, looking about the room. "Just this one."

"That's because I only have one customer at a time," Dori said. "Two or three at most."

"So you can keep them company?"

"That's right," Dori said. "So they aren't lonely."

Ori seemed to consider that, his small face set in a serious frown that was entirely Mam's. He then took two plain buns from his share of the batch and set them with Dori's.

"You should keep some of the good ones for them, in case they don't like seeds."

If any speck of the winter weather had lingered in Dori’s breast, it surely thawed at that moment. Was there ever a sweeter boy? 

"That's very thoughtful of you," Dori said, and he could not resist gathering Ori up into a hug and planting a noisy kiss upon his brow.

Ori squirmed but submitted to the fussing. "Dori, can we go to the library? It's on the way home..."

Dori hesitated. He was fairly certain that Mam would have said no. It was quite late in the day for an unplanned trip, and two courses of sweets and two outings seemed a tad much. But then, how was one to argue with anything as healthy and self-improving as books? He wavered, uncertain, and then leaned towards indulgence.

"Only if you wash up," he said. "They don't let little boys into the library with sticky hands and butter on their faces."

In truth, the library was not a place where Dori felt naturally at ease. He had done well enough with his schooling as a boy—read and wrote in the common speech and could muddle through in the old tongue—but he was not as book-minded as Ori, who was surely going to grow up to do great things. He clung very tightly to Ori's hand as they made their way to the assembly hall and then descended the long staircase that led down from the town archives. While he could appreciate the aesthetics of a prettily bound volume of poetry and was happy in principle that someone was looking after all these important things, the idea of exuberance in such a place made him nervous. They couldn't afford a repeat of the Jam Incident.

"This way," Ori urged him in a whisper, straining Dori's arm like a pup on lead. "All the good stuff is this way."

They read the tapestries and admired the friezes, and Ori—who was just starting his lessons—eagerly showed off his fledgling knowledge of the runes in the public copy of the Book of Laws, held up in Dori's arms to see over the edge of the column on which it sat. Dori lost track of where they were going soon after, led this way and that, past tables full of quarrelling scholars and narrow spaces between shelves of bound books and neatly stacked scrolls.

"Yes, yes, that's very nice," he said, and "Shhh!" and "Slow down, Ori, you're going to run into some—"

Which was, of course, exactly what happened.

"Ho there, laddie!" a familiar voice cried as Ori bounced back from the collision.

Balin, mercifully, did not look overly put out at having nearly been bowled over by a small boy. He steadied Ori with a hand atop his head and gave Dori a wry smile.

"Why, Mr. Dori—what a pleasant surprise. And who is this?"

"Good afternoon, Mr. Balin," Dori said, flustered as he bowed, and felt the colour rise to his cheeks. Balin had a grease pencil tucked behind his ear, and he was in his shirtsleeves, which was altogether too good a look on him. "This is Ori, my brother. Ori, apologize to Mr. Balin this instant."

A fit of sudden shyness sent Ori scurrying behind Dori's hip. Dori groaned in embarrassment and tried to extract him, with no success. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's got into him."

"That's all right," Balin said and crouched down to Ori's level with an affable expression. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Master Ori. Working on a scholarly treatise, are you?"

Ori tightened his grip on Dori's trouser-leg and shook his head.

"Browsing?" Balin ventured again.

Ori nodded.

"A prodigious reader, I'm sure. Have you ever seen a book being made?"

Ori shook his head again.

"How would you like to see the scribes at work?"

Ori paused and then looked up at Dori, his eyes round with mute appeal.

Dori bit his lip, looking uncertainly from Ori to Balin and back again. " _Best_ behaviour. Don't touch _anything_ without asking. Do you hear me?"

"Erle," Balin called, straightening up and flagging down a young scholar. "This is Ori son of Helri. He's here to inspect the copying room."

Ori took the girl's hand eagerly, all shyness seemingly forgotten at the prospect of a tour. Dori was left behind without a backwards glance.

"Thank you," he said to Balin. "That was very kind.”

"Not at all." Balin's gaze was as proper as pearl, and so was the tone of his voice, but his eyebrows briefly did something rather roguish. "You're looking very well, Mr. Dori."

"And you," Dori said.

The heat refused to leave his cheeks, and he silently scolded himself. He was a professional, and that meant comporting himself discreetly in public. Even when he happened to know that someone was a tremendously good kisser. And very nicely endowed. And inclined to stay and cuddle.

"Will you sit?" Balin asked, nodding towards a nearby table. "I could do with a break."

Dori strongly suspected that it was him who looked run off his feet. How could entertaining one little brother be more exhausting than pulling a tinker's cart all day? He did his best to smile graciously, and he stifled a sigh of relief as he sank into the comfortable chair. The table was set beside a large window, which looked down upon a lovely garden of pale green crystal that reflected the torchlight.

"Your brother seems like a fine boy," Balin said.

Dori was quick to nod. "As good as gold."

"I can remember when my own was that small—barely, mind. You two have met, haven't you?"

Dori’s smile immediately turned bland upon his lips. He peered at Balin, but found nothing but a pleasant, innocent expression. "We might have. I couldn't say."

"Oh, you'd remember if you had,” Balin said lightly. “Though you might not remember him kindly. He's been stomping about like a wounded oliphaunt all week, no fit company for anyone."

"Is that so?" Dori asked. "He sounds very rude, this brother of yours."

Balin snorted. "He has his moments. The whole business is his own fault, I'm sure. He offended someone and now he's ashamed of it. He has many fine qualities, mind you—he's loyal to his friends, to a fault—but he doesn't always pay attention to where he’s putting his feet.”

"He should, with the size of them," Dori said crossly.

Balin laughed, a sound to which Dori was altogether too partial. He often seemed amused, Mr. Balin, and sometimes of a fond disposition, but he was very difficult to make merry. It seemed to Dori that there was a sadness in him, one that was never quite chased away even in the most pleasurable of circumstances. Dori therefore found it very hard to deny him anything, even if he wasn't so coarse as to ask for the favour outright. Especially when he was not so coarse as that.

"Perhaps," Dori finally conceded, "he might try apologising to whoever it was he offended."

"That's very good advice. I shall pass it on to him."

"Monday," Dori said, looking down at the crystal garden in an attempt to quash the fluttering in his stomach prompted by Balin's thankful smile. "I understand Mondays are good days for apologies."

"I shall tell him that too." Balin then winked at him and asked: "How do you find Sundays for recovering from a week of sulky brothers?"

"Sunday would be wonderful," Dori blurted out. "Traditionally, I mean."

Blast it, a fellow could do damage with a wink like that.

Talk turned to the weather and what luxuries they meant to pounce upon as soon as the road merchants made their way back to town. Dori was listening raptly to a very interesting lecture on exactly how one was meant to eat a pomegranate when they were interrupted by Ori's excited return.

"Dori! Dori, I wrote in a book!"

He felt all the blood drain from his face. He jumped to his feet in alarm, but the young scholar trailing after Ori smiled reassuringly.

"One of the scribes let him cross a 't'. He did it very neatly too."

Ori leapt like a lamb, looking as pleased with himself as if he had penned an epic. Dori gave Balin a look of gratitude and supposed that one favour done for a younger brother was worth another.

"I won't keep you," Balin said, "but it was very nice seeing you again, Mr. Dori."

Dori bowed. "The feeling is mutual, Mr. Balin."

He had the pleasure of hearing all about the famous 't' in great detail on the way home. It was in a copy of Jarlun's Saga, which Dori was assured had the most beautiful illuminations in the world, and it was in the part about the queen's charge in the Battle of the Red Gates—in the very Gates themselves, as it happened—and the book was going to be put in the library when it was finished, and Dori could see it then.

They returned home in time for a quick supper. Dori fried up the last of the sausages and boiled some parsnips and consoled himself that Ori was at least having one solid, healthful meal for the day. Ori drowsed at the table, beginning to look as tired as Dori felt. 

"Are you going back to work?" Ori asked, pausing to yawn. 

"I am. I have an evening appointment."

"Who is it?"

"No one you know," Dori said, although that wasn't true. "Eat your vegetables."

After dinner, he gave Ori a bath and then delivered him, sweet-smelling and sleepy, into Mistress Finna's care for the night. 

"No more sweets," he said, and "Be good," and "I love you too."

He then hurried through his own preparations, cursing to himself when he saw how late he was running. His washing-up was shorter and colder than he would have liked, and he bound his braids up quickly after a perfunctory dab of oil and a half-decent combing. His hair was still damp when he got out the door, and he felt the dropping temperature keenly. He almost turned back for a hat, but then supposed it would only muss his braids.

Head tucked down against the wind, he made his way back through the quiet evening streets, walking as quickly as the icy cobblestones allowed. He muffled a yawn against his sleeve. It was silly to rush when he knew he was only going to be stood up. However, the sooner he got to the shop, the sooner he could build up a fire and crawl straight into that big bed for a lengthy nap…

Yet to his surprise, Bofur was already waiting outside the shop when he turned the corner onto Locket Street. 

“Reckoned I was early,” Bofur called out with a cheery wave.

"I wasn't sure you were coming," Dori said, embarrassed at having been caught out late. He hurried to the doorstep and fumbled with the key before ushering Bofur inside.

He expected a show of obtuseness, but when he got the lamp lit, Bofur was openly sheepish. A coin was procured, flipped over to confirm its worth, and clinked into the cash box. 

"I made Bombur hold onto it for me. Told him not to give it to me until today, even if I wheedled."  
   
Dori could not help but feel more than a little flattered and hid his smile as he went to the hearth to build up the fire. "And did you?"  
   
Bofur hemmed and hawed. "Well. Only a little. I was on a fine streak with the dice last night."  
   
Dori rolled his eyes. "Until you weren't."  
   
Bofur laughed, unashamed. "Until I wasn't."  
   
"Make yourself comfortable," Dori said kindly. "I'll put the kettle on and change."  
   
"I won't say no to a cup." Bofur pulled off his boots and sat down at the kitchen table. "Don't go changing on my account, though."  
   
Dori looked down at himself and clucked his tongue. It wasn't his worst suit of clothes, but hardly anything worth writing home about. Trousers and braces did not fit the atmosphere of the shop, or at least not for the host. The fact that Bofur was going to need a good scrubbing before going anywhere near the sheets was no reason to relax his own standards.   
   
"Or you could just take 'em off," Bofur said in what was likely meant to be a helpful tone. He grinned unrepentantly when Dori turned narrowed eyes upon him, and he patted his knee in invitation.  
   
"You're beastly," Dori said, although not with any real censure. He got the stove lit and the kettle warming, and then he returned to the table and allowed himself to be pulled down into Bofur’s lap.  
   
“Long day,” Bofur sighed and embraced him sweetly.  
   
Dori hummed in sympathy and rubbed the back of Bofur’s neck. A shift in the mines was an entirely different sort of exhaustion from chasing after a dear little brother, but it seemed to him that the remedy was much the same for both. First, a soothing cup of chamomile tea. Then, a long, relaxing soak in a hot tub. Then to bed, to bundle up under the covers, where he would be nice and toasty while he sucked Bofur’s cock—or perhaps they could settle in for a leisurely tup, one of those lovely slow screws propped up by plump pillows. 

Wiggs to follow, if Bofur promised not to get crumbs in the covers.

“I’m glad you came,” he said, and kissed him, and set about seeing how far they could get before the kettle came to a boil. 


	12. Hallmarks (Balin/Dori, Love Bites)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Balin comes to call, and Dori entertains a fanciful notion.

Dori was not usually prone to philosophy when he was naked and steamed up and fooling about on a nice big bed on a winter’s afternoon, but perhaps some of Balin’s cleverness was rubbing off on him. Certainly there was a lot of rubbing going on. Kissing too, and embracing, and a lovely bit of stroking. Which was what got him thinking, tipsy on dandelion wine and heavy petting, about whether or not you could tell a fellow’s craft by the way he comported himself in bed.

"Oh,” he sighed happily, leaning back to further encourage attention to his chest. “Do that again, please…"

There was something to the idea, he was sure of it. Firstly, hands gave an awful lot away. Work always left its mark in calluses and little scars, or in spots of unexpected smoothness, and where did you get more intimately acquainted with a fellow’s hands than in bed? The eyes told tales too—what they took careful measure of and what they appraised all at once in a glance. Then there was the way a fellow paced himself during the act. Did he strike hard and fast while the iron was hot? Did he go at it steady and smooth from start to finish?

"Like this?" Balin asked innocently just before treating Dori’s paps to another hard suck each.

Dori’s breath caught in his throat, and his voice rose three notes. "Just like that."

Take warriors (and Dori was in fact becoming very fond of doing so). In his experience, they were inclined towards crafts that complemented their trade. They were drop forgers and devisers, dabbling in sewing and knitting and leatherwork as needed. They crafted weapons and war machines and clever gear for the road. They charged headlong into bed-sport, were not afraid to improvise when needed, and got the job done efficiently, with perhaps a lusty battle cry or two thrown in for glory.

Or so it was as a rule.

Dori caressed the back of Balin's neck and toyed with the charming curls there. The bedroom was toasty, warmed by a good fire, but he shivered nonetheless as Balin's fingertips ran lightly up and down his inner thigh, raising goose bumps in their wake.

Balin was an exception.

Which was to say, he was most certainly a warrior—every handsome inch and ounce. Dori had been treated more than once to the sight of him in the armoury yard, sweating, smiling grimly as he sparred with his brother or instructed his young kinsmen in the art of the sword and mace. His protection could be hired by only the wealthiest or worthiest of merchants, and he was undoubtedly as fierce as a bear in battle, but Dori was willing to wager all the pepper in his pantry that Balin's craft of choice was something more delicate than the hammer and tongs.

"What about here?" Balin asked.

Hot kisses climbed Dori's neck like little fire-sparks, blazing a neat line from his collarbone to his ear.

"V-ery nice," Dori replied, the words trembling. He could not keep back a soft, appreciative babble when the kissing turned to nibbling.

"Have I found a weakness?" Balin asked, sounding as though butter could not possibly melt in his mouth.

"Hush, you," Dori protested weakly, roses blooming in his cheeks. Turnabout was fair play, and he gave Balin's cock a generous rub until he had earned at least half a gasp in return.

It was not at all in his nature to be embarrassed by his own dispositions, but there were certain knee-wobbling diversions that very few of his bedfellows happened to happen upon, and least of all with a keen glint of eye, as if all such weaknesses were being committed to memory for future deployment.

Fortunately, Balin did not take the rebuke to heart, chuckling warmly as he tickled the other side of Dori's neck with the brush of his beard and the edge of his teeth. He was a patient fellow, never in a hurry and not easily offended. Not that he was shy, oh no. That hand between Dori's thighs was very sure of its welcome.

"What are your feelings," Balin asked as lightly as he might inquire after the weather, "on the subject of marks?"

Dori swallowed hard. By happy coincidence, his feelings were very favourable. 

"Go right ahead," he managed to say, his voice nearly level despite the quiver of excitement that shot through him. There ought to have been a touch more hesitation on his part, if only to measure the life of a bruise against the time until his next appointment, but it was turning out to be such a nice afternoon, and he did so like a bit of rough treatment. Yet the prudent part of him felt the need to add: "But only if they're discreet. I need more warning otherwise, I'm afraid—"

"Very sensible," Balin said, forestalling any apology with a kiss.

He could happily drown in kisses like that. There was still the faintest taste of wine lingering in it, and Balin took his time coaxing Dori's lips beneath his own until they were buzzing like bumblebees. The flicker of a deft tongue made Dori's stomach flutter in anticipation. Brightsmithing, he thought dizzily. Goldsmithing. Sun-bright molten rivulets setting into smooth, gleaming works of art. That was a fitting craft for someone who could kiss like this.

Balin did not take any undue liberties when he made his mark. He drew aside the braided locks of Dori's beard and chose a well-hidden spot just to the left of the apple of his throat. He nuzzled at it, prompting more goose bumps. Then he nibbled, his teeth softly scraping. Then he bit down slowly, mouth sealed to the tender flesh and pulling with delicious suction. Dori let out a squeak of pleasure that was nearly lost in the naughty sound of smacking lips. 

Oh, now that was perfect.

Dori held on to Balin's shoulders, his eyes shutting as his blood sang. Those warm lips lingered, soothing what felt like a particularly vivid suck-mark welling up to the surface. Then Balin drew back, just far enough for the chill of the air to whisper over Dori's wet skin.

It seemed to him that Balin was very fond of _looking_. (And how fortuitous, for Dori was not at all opposed to being looked at.) Balin could be gentle or he could be rough, content by all signs to partake of whatever was on the menu, but visit by visit he let his partialities slip. That little smile as he watched Dori slowly disrobe. A satisfied hum when he kissed Dori silly and then pulled back to see how red he had made his lips. The brightness in his eyes when he propped himself up on an elbow and urged Dori to touch himself. 

Balin worked a subtle craft, he was certain of it. Engraving, maybe, or etching. Calligraphy. Something up close and carefully considered.

“How does it look?” Dori asked, the fledgling bruise throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He gave himself a tug and felt the echo of it there too.

“It looks very well,” Balin said, rubbing his thumb over the mark. 

“Wait until later,” Dori assured him. “Purple suits me better than red.”

Balin laughed delightedly. “You would look best of all in a whole necklace of these.”

Dori could not suppress a wanton wiggle at the idea. It was a touch impractical, yes—he would have to wear his collar up and his beard down—but what were gratuities for if not cushioning a few days off to recover? 

“Yes, please,” he said a touch breathlessly, stroking Balin’s shoulders. “Not today, but yes please.”

“Not today,” Balin agreed, teasing gentle lips and rough beard over the mark. 

Who could ask for a better customer? Balin was not the sort to insult him by bargaining, for he obviously knew the value of good work.

The image painted itself prettily in Dori’s imagination. Ten good suck-marks would do it, or maybe twelve. An even dozen, he liked the sound of that. It would hurt, yes, in that very nice way that started out sharp and melted to a warm ache. He thought that he should like to ride Balin after, his hair and beard bound up tight to give a proper view (for a fellow should be able to enjoy the fruits of his labour), and he thought that Balin might smile that pleased little smile of his, and press cool hands to his burning skin.

Dori bit his lip in indecision and then, supposing that two was only twice as many as one, added: "That doesn't mean you ought to leave me lopsided."

"Lopsided?" Balin laughed softly again and squeezed his backside. "We can't have that."

He seemed to take great pains to ensure that a perfect twin was made. A kiss here—no, higher. He tilted Dori’s chin up, appraised the symmetry again, and then noisily sucked another mark into being. 

Dori cried out full-throated, his eyes squeezing shut and his mouth stretched to a fierce grin as the heat burned through him, flaring like a sulfur match and setting the rest of him alight. Gemcutting, he thought. Jewelsmithing. He pictured a raw stone of emerald, sapphire, diamond, turned over in careful hands until the cut was decided upon, planned out by eye before the very first whisper of the saw. 

He could always ask. Not that he wished to be thought prying, and he certainly did not wish to look as if he were clumsily soliciting a gift. Yet he could ask, discreetly, what else Balin did with his hands, and he could find out for certain whether his guess was right. 

"Yes, that's much better," Balin declared, his fingers in Dori's beard, holding it aside to look upon his work.

Then again, Dori supposed—stretching luxuriously and reaching for the oil on the bedside table—there was something to be said for gathering more evidence.


	13. Table Manners II (Dori/Dwalin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin's second visit to the Amethyst is marginally more successful than his first; but then, it would have to be.

To his credit, the first word out of Dwalin son of Fundin's mouth upon arriving for his Monday appointment was: "Sorry."

It sounded sincere and was accompanied by a deep bow, a proper one, with eyes lowered humbly to the front step. Even more promisingly, it was also accompanied by a gift box.

"I spoke out of turn. I beg your pardon."

Dori took the gift box, surreptitiously weighing it in his hand, and smiled graciously. "Apology accepted. I'm sure it was all a misunderstanding."

He let Dwalin come inside and took his hat and cloak and dagger. His fingers itched to open the present, but business first. He relocated a coin from Dwalin's purse to the money box and then sat him down at the table where luncheon was waiting. Planning cautiously, he had prepared bacon and onion tarts, which kept well when cold and could have been taken home for his own cupboard if Dwalin had once again had to leave with unexpected haste.

Only then did he open the parcel, stealing excited glances at Dwalin as he carefully untied it. The silver ribbon and cherry wood box were pretty enough gifts on their own, but he let out a soft cry of delight when he discovered a delicate satchel inside and breathed in the strong aroma of good black tea.

"Oh, you shouldn't have!" In truth, he wondered if Dwalin had, or at least had done so entirely on his own. It seemed to him that he had mentioned his fondness for bergamot blends to Balin. "Shall I brew us a pot?"

The wrinkling of Dwalin's nose bolstered his suspicions. "Do you have any ale?"

Still cradling the tea in his hands, Dori refrained from asking if this looked like a pub, and moreover, if he looked like pub company. 

"I'm sure I have some wine somewhere," he said, his tone making it clear that he was extending him a great favour.

Dwalin proved curiously deaf. "That'll do."

Dori tucked the tea away in a canister and then removed a bottle of plum wine from the rack. 

"I think you'll like this," he said, taking down two goblets. "It's very robust."

Dwalin had already started in on the tarts by the time Dori brought the wine to the table. To wit, he had placed an entire tart in his mouth and was chewing it like a chunk of cram. 

"These aren't bad," Dwalin said, spewing a few crumbs. He then proceeded to wash down the rest of the tart with the wine, the full contents of the goblet disappearing in one swallow.

"Tell me, Mister Dwalin," Dori said a tad reproachfully, sitting down across from him and neatly cutting a tart in two with the provided knife, "are you always so...fast?"

Dwalin's chewing immediately slowed. His eyes narrowed, and then he snorted.

"Are those axes yours?" he asked when his mouth was empty.

Dori looked to his grandmother's axes above the mantel and shook his head. "Family heirlooms."

"What do you fight with, then?"

"I don't fight with anything," Dori said. He had trained with the sword, of course, but he had only ever been to war the once. 

"You could make a good wage with an arm like yours," Dwalin said wryly. He bit another tart in two and mostly chewed it before continuing: "There aren't many that can throw me around."

"And who says I don't make a better wage throwing fellows like you around in here?" Dori asked.

Dwalin laughed heartily, slamming his heavy fist down on the table. He was much more handsome with a merry expression.

"I hunt," Dori said, smiling. "Small game. Coneys and pigeons, mostly.”

Dwalin nodded approvingly. "Any kin?"

Now that was a question you'd only hear from another dwarf of Erebor. Who else could count their kinsmen?

"Two brothers," he said, "both younger."

"What sort of work do they do?"

"Nori is abroad," he said, and that was all he said, sliding smoothly over to the next words as though Nori were off doing something as respectable as guard-work or trading, "and Ori has just started his schooling."

"I've got an elder brother," Dwalin said. "Ugly sort. Terrible breath."

Dori let out a squawk of disbelief, and the cad smirked at his obvious indignation. Oh, the brute. Younger brothers (a separate breed, of course, from much-younger brothers) were awful creatures.

Perhaps conversation was not the right stimulant of appetite in this case. Dori finished his wine, at a more seemly pace, and then went around the table to stand behind Dwalin and rub his shoulders. They were very nice shoulders, he had to give him that—very broad, tense at first due to a warrior's wariness of having a near-stranger stand behind him, but soon yielding beneath the firm push and pull of Dori's hands.

"Oh, that's good," Dwalin rumbled, his head dipping forward as Dori kneaded the back of his neck. 

Dwalin had a very nice chest as well. It was quite firm, and when Dori's fingers stole briefly in between the laces of his shirt, it proved delightfully well-furred as well. He stroked the warm wool of Dwalin's shirt, pressing it flat to feel the muscles beneath, and then pulled the laces loose for a closer caress. The beard above was admirably thick, and Dwalin all but purred like a great cat when Dori skritched him under the chin.

It was all, in fact, taking quite an acceptable turn, up until the point when Dwalin reached once again for his goblet. He tipped it towards himself, seeming to double-check it was empty. Then he looked to the bottle.

Oh no, Dori thought. He wouldn't dare. 

Would he?

His mouth fell open in mute affront as Dwalin picked up the bottle. Without even asking if Dori would like another tipple, Dwalin flipped the bottle bottoms-up and let the dear wine glug straight down his gullet. The hearty belch that followed turned to a yelp when Dori's fingers dug in abruptly with full strength.

Dwalin looked up in surprise, but Dori, summoning all of his control, forced a reassuring smile to his lips.

"Finish that last tart," he said. "I don't like food going to waste."

Dwalin did so, a tad distractedly, for Dori had teased a hand down his shirt to comb through the thicket of hair. He ventured down to the softer terrain of Dwalin’s belly and then let his fingernails rake back up as he mouthed softly at the edge of a notched ear, breathing hot against Dwalin's skin. 

An unmistakable bulge began to make itself known. 

"It was very nice of you to come by with that lovely tea," Dori murmured, gently pulling at the smooth ring in Dwalin's left pap. 

Dwalin hummed his agreement and shifted in his seat, spreading his legs. 

"Was the luncheon to your liking?"

Dwalin nodded, his eyes shut as he leaned back, his head against Dori's chest.

"Then I'll show you out."

There was a pause, and then Dwalin's eyes opened.

Dori smiled in unreserved pleasure at the befuddlement upon his face.

"What?" Dwalin asked. He sat up straight in his chair, craning his neck to look at the bedroom door and then back at Dori. "I thought..."

"Don't worry," Dori said, removing his hand from Dwalin's shirt and patting him on the shoulder. "I know that a fellow doesn't perform at his best when he's had too much strong drink. You should go home and have a nice lie-down. I wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself."

"Strong drink?" Dwalin thundered. "It was only wine!"

"And you had an awful lot of it," Dori said. "I'm so glad you liked it."

Dwalin might not have been as clever as his brother, but he was hardly dim. He put two and two together swiftly, looking at the empty bottle and then, once again, back at Dori. His shoulders slumped. Dori very nearly felt sorry for him.

"Come on, here we go," Dori said, pulling the great lump to his feet and steering him to the entryway. There, he helped him on with his hat and re-sheathed his dagger and even did him the kindness of fastening his cloak so as not to give any innocent bystanders an eyeful. He was not cruel.

He then stood on his tiptoes and gave Dwalin a kiss on the cheek before opening the door and shoving him outside. It wasn't pleasant, but it had to be done. Give them a few inches and they'll take a mile, as Uncle Vyri used to say.

"I'll be back," Dwalin growled, his voice containing only what little menace could be mustered by a fellow with a cock-stand on a frozen front step. 

"I look forward to it," Dori sweetly replied, and then he slammed the door in Dwalin's face.


	14. Small Beer and Bread (Balin, Dwalin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin returns from his unsuccessful visit to the Amethyst, and Balin provides some sound advice.

Dwalin slammed the door behind him as he stomped into the house. The heavy oak let out a satisfyingly loud bang, but to pile annoyance upon his already sore temper, his brother did not so much as flinch. Balin was sitting at his desk in the alcove that formed his study, poring over an untidy scattering of parchments and scrolls. He spared Dwalin a brief glance.

"You're home early."

The armchair groaned as Dwalin threw himself down into it. He kicked off his boots and grunted.

"Did you give insult again, by chance?" Balin asked.

Dwalin did not wish to reply, but in time, sullenly, he muttered: "I drank his wine."

Though he could only see the back of Balin's head, he fancied he could hear his eyebrows rising.

"All of it?" Balin ventured.

"He had a glass!"

Balin merely hummed, as if he had expected no better of him. That was, at the end of the day, nearly as humiliating as being thrown to the elements for a very gingerly walk home. Steaming him up and then turning him out—that was not fair play. 

"I don't like him," he declared. 

"Then you have your answer," Balin said placidly.

"What do you mean?" Dwalin asked, dragging his thoughts away from the memory of warm hands on his chest. Lips at his ear. A beard like silk. 

"I was under the impression you were inquiring on our mutual friend's behalf."

Dwalin crossed his arms and glowered.

"Unless, of course, it's personal now."

It was. For one thing, his pride was now twice-dented. For another, he could not help but admire someone who could heave him a good six feet. Dori son of Helri was _sturdy_. Dwalin was determined to have his revenge. He wanted to rumple up that fussy little baker, preferably on that table, and leave him gasping and sweating and not so prim and proper anymore.

He grunted.

"I seem to remember telling you to bring your house manners."

"I did," Dwalin protested.

"Would you have drunk all the wine at our mother's table?"

Dwalin pulled a face. "I wasn't trying to get off with anyone at Ama's table."

"I should hope not," Balin said drily.

Dwalin slouched in his seat, glowering at the fire. "What good are you?"

Balin sighed and momentarily put down his quill, looking over his shoulder at him. "You, brother, are used to locking horns in the pubs and at the armoury. Showing off that you can quaff the most ale and take a blow without flinching won't get anyone's attention in a tea house. Or not the sort of attention you want."

"You like him," Dwalin accused, sour that Balin probably had the right end of it.

Balin turned back to his work.

"Do you know how I know you like him?"

Balin said nothing.

Dwalin pressed. "I said, do you know how I know you like him?"

"I can't imagine," Balin said loftily.

"Because you don't want to talk about him," Dwalin said smugly. "You'll talk about tea houses, but you won't say 'he' or 'him.' He's caught your fancy."

Balin was silent.

"You like him," Dwalin insisted.

"I like a great many people."

"No, you don't."

Balin turned and gave him a look that clearly said: _Are we going to talk about the matter of liking?_

Dwalin swiftly changed the subject. "I'm going back. He'll not win."

"You'll have to wait until you've got your hands on a bottle of brandy."

"Brandy?" Dwalin straightened up indignantly. "I only drank plum wine!"

"And you drank it all. Bring him brandy."

He narrowed his eyes, suspecting he knew the answer even before he asked, but unable to stop himself. "Why brandy?"

"Because I would like to drink some the next time I'm in."

Dwalin picked up a book from the nearby table and threw it at him. Balin caught it with a chiding 'tsk' and checked it for damage. 

"Bring him brandy," he repeated, "and when he offers you some, tell him you wouldn't dream of drinking so early in the day, but could you trouble him for a cup of tea."

All right, that at least sounded useful. Dwalin nodded for him to continue.

Balin set the book on his desk among the untidy stacks of its brethren. "Be prompt. Go to the baths first to show you've made an effort, but don't turn down another one if he offers. When you're there, sit where you're sat, make believe you're having a conversation with one of Ama's friends, and—"

"Which one?" Dwalin interrupted, trying to keep it all straight.

"Which what?"

"Which one of Ama's friends?"

"Does it matter?"

"The one that wanted me to go to bed with her or the other ones?"

Balin paused and then ventured: "Mistress Dalla?"

Dwalin nodded.

"Not her."

Dwalin's confusion increased.

"Now, when it comes to the food, let him refill the plates—"

"If I'm paying to eat," Dwalin protested, "I want my money's worth."

"You aren't paying to eat," Balin said. "You're paying to be fed. There is a difference."

"Now it's riddles," Dwalin groused.

Balin sighed and looked briefly up to the ceiling, although whether in an appeal for patience or to gather his thoughts, Dwalin could not tell. "Do you remember when you were young, and you would come home at midday from training?"

He nodded, thinking back to Erebor and the grand apartments buried deep in the heart of the mountain—a world away from the set of rooms he and Balin rented.

"The kitchen would be warm," Balin continued, his voice growing soft and persuasive, "and there would be a pot of stew waiting, and fresh bread. Small beer."

Dwalin remembered.

"You would sit down to talk about your day, and there your bowl would be, and a thick slice of bread with butter and honey."

Balin was as dangerous with his voice as he was with a sword. Dwalin could not help but let his eyes close as he pictured his mother's kitchen in Erebor. They had taken most of their meals in the hall, at least once he had been old enough to leave the nursery, but Ama had loved to cook and brew. The smell of rising bread and bubbling beer had always filled the house. He had nearly forgotten about that.

"Did you ever get up from that table hungry?" Balin asked.

He shook his head.

"Did you always feel better afterwards?"

He nodded. 

"Then don't be a jackass."

Dwalin snorted. He gave the situation some thought and then stood up and crossed to Balin's desk, where he grabbed the wax tablet and stylus. Ignoring his brother's protest, he returned to his seat and diligently wrote beneath the meaningless row of figures:

_1\. Buy brandy._

"What was the next part?" he asked.

Balin gave up the pretence of working and leaned forward to supervise as Dwalin wrote down his instructions. "Be prompt..."


	15. Blessing the Iron (Dori/OMC, First Sexual Experience)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dori hosts an inexperienced young guardsman and has a first time of his own.

He began by making the shop as warm and quiet as he could. That seemed right. Intimate. He snuffed out the lamps and let the glow of the hearth blanket the bedroom and sitting room with flickering shadows. After some dithering, he heaped juniper boughs on the fire, sniffing approvingly as the green scent perfumed the air in smoky wisps. It covered up the everyday smell of baking and brought in a touch of the wild—of in-between places neither at home nor abroad.

The warg pelt rug lay at the foot of the bed, beaten and brushed. Dori had rubbed a little oil on the fangs so that they gleamed in the firelight. He removed the goose down coverlet from the bed and replaced it with the stag hide blanket. He dabbed a drop of orange scent behind his ear.

To be perfectly honest, he had never actually carried out any of the rites by himself and hadn't the faintest idea if he was doing it correctly. But he did know something about setting a mood.

When Adin son of Farasi arrived for his appointment, looking shy but very respectable in his brand new armour, Dori made no mention of Sergeant Grimir's letter of arrangement or the fee that had already been paid. He only smiled and told the lad how pleased he was to see him. He took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom, where he relieved him of his throwing axe and sword.

"My company leaves for the Ice Bay tomorrow," Adin said as Dori began to unbuckle his armour. He cleared his throat and then confided: "I've never left the mountain before."

Dori nodded seriously, doing his best to look neither surprised nor knowing. He suspected there were many things the lad had not done before. Un-bloodied and un-bedded they came for the blessing of the iron, and while time and opportunity would sort out the former, Dori intended to do something about the latter.

"I'm not afraid," Adin hurried to assure him, a touch too loudly.

"I should think not," Dori was equally quick to reply, making sure he sounded aghast at the very idea as his fingers plucked at stiff leather straps. "I know your captain, and he doesn't keep cowards in his company."

Adin relaxed slightly. He really was a handsome lad, as solid as a hill, with lovely brown eyes and a full beard that nearly disguised the fact that he was only a squeak above the age to serve. Beneath his armour was a coat of mail made to measure, which shone red in the firelight over the impressive planes of strong arms and a stout trunk.

There was an audible swallow when Dori's hands slipped beneath the metal. Adin's face was a study in determined nonchalance—the sort of expression that only an untried youth would imagine an experienced sweetheart to wear. Dori's own anxiety abated at that, a tender feeling arising in worry's wake. Novices were darling things, and it was steadying to remind himself that while he didn't know the rites as well as Uncle Vyri had, he certainly knew them better than anyone else currently in the room. 

The blessing was a sort of magic, or it was meant to be. That was to say, it wasn't wizardry or witchcraft or anything dark or unnatural. There were no special words or talismans, or at least not as far as Dori knew. There were no prayers as such, and no potions or incantations. Uncle Vyri had called it the magic of belief, and he had tried to explain to Dori how you could conjure luck out of thin air, and Dori had tried his best to understand.

"Will you sit with me?" he asked when the armour and mail had been carefully hung on the rack he'd spent the morning hastily cobbling together.

A tray lay waiting on the rug, bearing two tankards of mead and a spread of good-fortune food: black bread, honey, and slices of sweet apple. Dori was not the sort to stint on victuals for his guests, and such simple fare demanded no less than absolute perfection. The bread was the best loaf of three, sweet with treacle and sour with cider. The honey was from dandelion bees, as yellow as sunshine and good for settling a nervous stomach. The apples had been selected with care by hand from the barrel, red-skinned and white-fleshed, without a single bruise to mar them.

"Eat," he urged, taking a slice of apple for himself as Adin sat down across from him. "I know what sort of appetites you warriors have."

Adin laughed and glanced down guiltily, but he was quick to tuck in. True to Dori's prediction, he soon made crumbs of the bread, bolted down with a goodly portion of honey. The mead did its work to loosen his tongue, and he was eventually coaxed into making small talk about his family, his training, and all the places he wished to travel someday.

Dori smiled patiently as glances were stolen, hesitantly at first and then with growing determination. Adin's hand made two halted attempts before finally settling atop his own.

"You're pretty," the lad said bluntly. "Very pretty—I mean, beautiful."

Dori beamed. He turned his hand, folding his fingers around Adin's and squeezing softly.

"Aren't you sweet?" he murmured.

And oh, he was.

Adin's mouth tasted of honey when Dori kissed him. It was hot and soft, shy and still for a moment before catching on to what was happening with endearing enthusiasm. Dori was rocked backwards when Adin pushed wholeheartedly into the kiss on the second pass. He hummed in approval and braced himself, his fingers tangling in the warmth of a woolly beard. He tickled Adin's chin and bit at his plump lower lip, eliciting a lovely shiver.

Under other circumstances, he would be inclined to topple the lad onto his back, straddle his hips, and proceed to show him a thing or two. Yet he restrained himself and conscientiously let his guest take the lead—guided by the occasional nudge and entreated with soft, encouraging sounds when he moved in the right direction. The kisses slowed and deepened, and Adin restlessly stroked Dori's back from the nape of his neck to the top of his tail bone. There, he hesitated bashfully for a few circling caresses before moving his attentions lower.

Dori knelt up to accommodate him, quite amenable to having his bottom fondled. Adin's breathing grew heavier and his touch braver. He grasped Dori's backside tightly in both hands. Dori moaned, stroking the width of Adin's broad shoulders and then walking his fingertips slowly down to where snug trousers were straining.

"Oh my," he murmured between kisses, putting a tad more breathiness into his voice than was strictly necessary.

The signs of an overstrung bow—the iron hardness under his hand and Adin's uncertain, half-warning "Um"—made him proceed delicately. He untied Adin's laces and opened up his small-clothes with a light touch, pausing a moment afterwards to give the lad breathing room. He then ventured into the gap in Adin's trousers.

"Oh _my_ ," he said again, his gaze flicking up just so. He bit his lip. "Would you let me have a taste?"

Adin nodded so quickly that Dori feared he might hurt himself.

The lightest press urged Adin to recline. Dori propped himself up on an elbow beside the lad's hip and opened his trousers fully. He might have played up his flattery a little, but there really was a perfectly lovely endowment inside, bobbing up intrepidly. Dori caressed it lightly with his fingertips and then pressed soft kisses along its length to the sound of a sharply drawn-in breath and then another precarious "Um". His tongue flickered over the damp tip, and then he bestowed a second line of kisses, slower and wetter ones this time, followed by a long and lavish lick.

One of Adin's hands pushed into the rug and the other twisted in his shirtfront. He was close, already teetering on the edge of coming. Dori could hear it in his breathing and feel it in the way his muscles quivered. Oh, he could _taste_ it when a dab of early seed smeared across his upper lip, and he chased after the salty dribble to enjoy it in full.

"Mmm, please..." he moaned, as if it were him who could not possibly wait a moment longer.

Adin, as expected, was good enough to oblige him. The moment Dori's lips closed around him, he groaned a word he had most certainly picked up in the barracks and lasted only the length of five firm sucks.

 _Twang_ went the bowstring. Dori pinned down Adin's hips to avoid a sputter and swallowed with satisfaction.

He had to resist the urge to coo when he withdrew. Adin wore a smile of sweet surprise, his eyes half-shut and dazed. With a smile of his own, Dori reached for his tankard and had a sip of mead. He dipped the last slice of apple in the remaining honey and presented it to Adin's lips. Dreamily, the lad bit it in two and then ate the other half from Dori's fingers.

 _Adorable_ wasn't likely to be welcome praise for a young warrior, and so Dori held his tongue and stroked Adin's brow fondly instead. The lad's hair made a pretty picture as it lay coiled, coal-black, upon the silvery warg pelt. Dori indulged himself, playing with the neat locks until Adin—obviously emboldened by experience—snaked an arm around him and pulled.

Down Dori went with a pleased squeak to a warm embrace and what proved to be the first of many long, lingering kisses. He cuddled up, settling comfortably in Adin's arms. He liked this part, the waiting in between rounds, especially when his own arousal was half-kindled, gaining heat in his lower belly in anticipation of what lay ahead. It was not a very long wait, for even with both hands soon thoroughly occupied with Dori's bottom, Adin was looking distinctly perky again within minutes.

"Goodness," Dori murmured, granting Adin a look he hoped said _clever you_ and not _oh, bless_.

There was a hint of sheepishness on the lad's face, but Dori quelled it with an admiring caress.

"Take me to bed?" he asked, letting the heat come forth in his voice as he stole a nibble at Adin's ear.

There was certainly no doubting the lad's strength. In the space of a forgivably graceless heave and shuffle, Adin all but leapt to his feet with Dori bent over his shoulder. Dori laughed in delight as he was hoisted and snagged the waist of Adin's trousers to keep them from sliding down and tripping the lad up. Two staggering steps took them to the bed, where Dori flopped onto his back and immediately began wiggling out of his clothing. He was bare in moments and then sat up to tend to his guest, making equally short work of Adin's shirt and trousers and small-clothes. 

He hardly had a moment to appreciate the view before Adin fell eagerly upon him.

They tangled up together in another embrace, Dori pressed beneath Adin's earnest weight. The lad's locks made a cosy curtain around them as Dori was kissed with growing fervour. Oh, Adin was certainly getting the knack of that. Dori roused to full passion, pushing up and frotting against a firm thigh. He wound an arm around Adin's neck and showed him how much nicer kissing was with the proper application of teeth, and when Adin moaned low in response and ground his hips down against Dori's with renewed urgency, Dori reached under the pillow for the oil.

There were some things that one usually had to do oneself if it was to be done well, and while he was all for letting Adin set the pace, he had no intention of having a perfectly nice tryst thrown out of kilter by a fumbled notching. He popped the little flask open one-handed and coated his fingers in oil. He hooked one leg around Adin's hip for leverage and in a practiced manoeuvre quickly buttered himself up inside and out. 

The extra wiggling did not go amiss, and Adin pulled back from their clinch with a frown, evidently worried he had done something wrong. Dori smiled reassuringly and drizzled the rest of the oil over Adin's cock, diverting his concern with a slick, twisting rub.

"If you don't take me this instant," he declared, "I am going to burst."

With that, he twisted under Adin, turning over onto his elbows and knees. All things being equal, he preferred to ride, or else to be pushed up against a stout headboard with his ankles 'round someone's ears, but in his not-inconsiderable experience some novices could be shy about being watched. At any rate, it was certainly easier to get the hang of playing the hammer when you could properly see the anvil.

The mattress dipped as Adin knelt up hurriedly behind him. What followed was the expected oily fumbling—too hard a push, too slippery, and then too hesitant—before Adin slid inside him with the most charming "ah!" of happy revelation. 

"That's it," Dori murmured in encouragement.

Adin's hands settled on his hips, warm against his bare skin and clutching hard. "Oh..."

Dori pushed back, screwing himself down on Adin lovely cock until he took over. Slow and careful at first—what a sweet, mannerly lad—and then a tad harder when Dori's moans betrayed nothing but pleasure.

A rather nice bout of tupping ensued. The blankets shifted around beneath them as the mattress jounced, and the merry sound of smacking skin and little grunts overtook the crackling of the fire. Dori resisted the urge to reach back and grab Adin impatiently by the thigh on the three occasions when he got carried away and slipped out, and made do by filling the awkward pause with breathy moans instead. The rough, desperate sounds coming from Adin's throat with every thrust were enough to keep him stoked despite the unsteady rhythm, and he hung his head and called out in slightly embellished approval as he lashed himself towards the finish.

"Maker," Adin groaned, hammering into him now, "Maker, you feel..."

The word in question was never decided upon. Dori only barely managed to bring himself off ahead of Adin's spending, but manage he did, with his growing chant of "yes-yes-yes!" reaching a noisy peak moments before Adin's impressive bellow. Now there was a battle cry that would send enemies scattering.

When Adin was finished, Dori rolled him onto his back and seized a hot, lax kiss. He lay down with him, resting his head on the lad's heaving chest and sighing in satisfaction.

"That was amazing," Adin said, sounding stunned as he held him.

"Amazing," Dori agreed, running his fingers through Adin's beard. 

A tidy-up would usually be called for, but a bit of a sticky rest seemed best for a rite. Sweat and spunk and spit, they were all of a kind with blood, and blood was magic. Besides, there were times when one was meant to be a little proud at having made a mess, and an inaugural bounce was one of them. He nuzzled Adin's chest contentedly until the lad looked ready to drift off.

"Sleep," he said kindly, patting Adin on the belly just above his resting cock. "I'll see to your weapons."

Adin hummed his consent, his eyelids heavy.

Dori quietly left the bed and washed his hands. He retrieved Adin's sword and axe and set them on the hearth before taking down a jar of blade oil and a whetstone from the mantel. He briefly considered finding his robe, but it felt fitting with the mood to sit naked in front of the fire, still slick between his legs. There was a faint sound from the bed, and he could nearly feel the weight of Adin's sleepy gaze upon him. He set to work on the sword and began to sing.

" _Oh, how true thy blade_  
 _How quick your arrows_  
 _Oh, how clear thy eyes_  
 _And great shall be thy deeds_ "

He hoped Adin's Khuzdul was no better than his, for the old songs he had learned at Uncle Vyri's knee were half-remembered, and some of the words he knew only by sound rather than meaning.

 _I'm not afraid_ , the lad had said. 

Dori looked down at the glinting blade as he polished its edge in slow, steady, back-and-forth strokes. He supposed it would do no good to tell him that he had been afraid before his first battle. He had been terrified, in fact, his hands numb and his heart pounding louder than the war drums. Perhaps it was different when you were a warrior, but then again, perhaps it wasn't. Either way, there seemed little sense in telling a lad who had never even seen a goblin or an orc that he had been afraid and had lived, and that he fought alongside far braver dwarrows who had fallen. 

Besides, he thought, loath to have thoughts of the Dimrill Dale in as pleasant a place as his shop, it seemed to him that as long as you could make your legs carry you forward when the horns sounded, the rest was down to strength and chance.

He shook his head and turned his mind towards the morning instead. They would have to wake early to make time for a nice hot bath and a spot of cocksucking before Adin had to report back to his company. He would oil the lad's hair and tie the locks for him, and comb out his beard until it was as voluminous as a veteran's. A kiss for luck was a must before Adin was sent out, armoured again and, if Dori had done his job right, swaggering with pride for having so well pleased his first lover.

His gaze turned back to the bed, where Adin was now beginning to snore. 

Two kisses, Dori decided. For extra luck. And he would instruct the lad to bring his sword and axe home blunt and bloody so that he might have the pleasure of tending to them again.


	16. Lavender Biscuits (Dori, Nori)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nori turns up like the proverbial bad penny, and Dori says more than one thing he shouldn't.

He should have known something was amiss when he saw the light in the shop window.

Dori's purse was not so fat that he could afford to waste oil, and he could have sworn he had put out the lamps and closed up properly before leaving for the market. He frowned and silently scolded himself for his absentmindedness as he juggled the parcels in his arms. He fumbled for the key that hung from his belt, only to find when he tried it that the door was already unlocked.

He straightened up in alarm. His hand stilled upon the door handle and then withdrew. Slowly, he set his parcels down on the step, save for the joint of mutton. This he grasped like a cudgel. He rolled his shoulders twice, loosening up. Then he threw open the door, intent on breaking in the head of whoever had dared break into his shop.

"'Lo," Nori called, looking up from where he sat with his feet on the table. He glanced at the mutton and grinned a lazy grin. "Don't worry about me, I already had lunch."

Dori froze, staring. For an instant, he was torn between lobbing the joint at his brother's head and swooping down upon him to demand to know if he was all right and where he had been and how long he was going to stay. He swallowed over a lump in his throat, managed a withering glare instead, and gathered up the rest of his groceries. He shut the door heavily behind him and proceeded mutely to the kitchen.

"So there I was," Nori continued blithely, as if it hadn't been months, "just having got back into town and having a smoke at the smithy, and some of the lads get to talking about where a fellow can buy a drink."

Translation: Nori had been asking after where to find a dice game, or worse.

"'Are you new to the mountain?' one of them asks me. 'Nah,' I say, 'but I've been away awhile.' 'Well, then,' he says. 'You'll not have heard of the Amethyst.'"

Dori put his perishables away in the cold cupboard and slammed the hatch shut.

"'The Amethyst?' I say. 'That's a funny name for a tavern.' 'Oh no,' another one says. 'You won't get a lick of ale there, but you will get a—'"

"Nori!"

He hadn't intended to give Nori the satisfaction of shouting at him, but there it was. He took down the kettle and worked the water pump angrily.

"My business isn't any of your business," he pointed out. "You don't live here any more—you've made that clear enough."

Nori had nothing to say to that, apparently. Dori lit a fire and put the kettle on to boil. He stowed away the rest of his shopping and stole glances out at Nori, who was now cleaning his fingernails with a knife in a blatant attempt to annoy him. He looked far too thin, and his hair and beard were a disgrace. That was the same coat he had been wearing the last time he had come home, but his shirt and trousers were new. His boots, worryingly, were obviously second-hand and worse off than the pair Mam had bought him.

When the water was ready. Dori took out a pair of cups and scooped two portions of red clover tea into the pot.

"Well?" he finally said, looking accusingly into the sitting room. "Aren't you even going to ask how Ori is?"

Nori paused and then wiped his knife on his thigh. "I've seen him. He looks fine. He's gotten bigger."

Dori drew in a sharp breath, but Nori only laughed and pulled an innocent face.

"I saw him in the street, that's all. What? I'm not allowed to see my own brother?"

"It's going to confuse him. One day you're here, the next you're gone."

This was where Nori was meant to say he was back to stay, but he didn't. He only shrugged.

"That's the way it is."

Dori's jaw tightened as he loaded up the tea tray and carried it to the table. The water sloshed in the pot as he set it down roughly.

"It's no proper way to live."

Nori smiled, baring his eyeteeth. "It's the only way to live."

Up close, Dori could see a half-healed cut on Nori's temple. He reached out, but Nori dodged him.

"It's fine. Leave it be."

Dori sniffed. "Suit yourself."

He went back into the kitchen and returned with the biscuit tin, which he deposited with a rather bigger _clang_ than was necessarily called for.

"Get your feet off the table."

Nori obeyed, although he took his time about it. Dori sat down across from him and poured them each a cup of tea. They drank in uncomfortable silence, and it did not take long for Nori to break into the biscuits. He took out a piece of shortbread, sniffed it, and then took a bite.

He wrinkled his nose. "What's this?"

"It's a biscuit," Dori said stiffly.

Nori spat it out onto the table. "It tastes like soap!"

"It's a _lavender_ biscuit."

"Mahal's balls. First all this—" Nori looked around the shop in baffled disapproval. "—and now elf food. You're going to turn into Uncle Vyri."

"And what would be wrong with that?" 

Nori snorted. "Vyri was a bitter old snob."

Dori's hand clenched, and he came perilously close to crushing his teacup. "You never did like him."

"He never liked me."

"Oh, I wonder why that was," Dori said. 

Nori's gaze dropped at that. He did have some shame. Not enough to keep him from thieving when it suited him, from poaching in the royal woods, from gambling and cheating and doing who knew what other disreputable business. But some. 

"He never liked me long before I ever pinched a thing from him," Nori said, crumbling the rest of the biscuit between his finger and thumb. "You were always his special pet."

Dori glowered at the mess of crumbs. "And you were Mam's, and Nuar's too. Did everyone have to like you best?"

He regretted his words immediately. Angry as he was that Nori had not even stayed to see her buried, he took no pleasure in seeing his brother's face turn blank and pale. His stomach sank and his throat tightened. He looked down unhappily into his cup and swirled the tea around.

_"Where's your brother? Dori, where is he?"_

"It wasn't your fault," he was compelled to say. "Mam—what happened—it wasn't your fault at all."

Nori set his cup down softly. "Who said it was?"

"No one," Dori said. "Because it wasn't."

_His mother shook him so hard he staggered. His eyes burned in the smoke. "I don't know!"_

Nori stood up abruptly, shoving his chair back.

"Sit down," Dori said, but Nori was already striding away from the table. 

He leapt to his feet. "Nori—Nori, you get back here this instant!"

The door was yanked open and then crashed against the frame. Dori jumped as the force of it reverberated through the room. His hand clenched again around his cup, and he only barely stopped himself from hurling the thing against the wall. One foot moved forward, but he stopped that too. He was not going to humiliate himself in front of the whole town by running out into the street after someone who did not wish to be caught. He swallowed hard, holding his voice in for several seconds before finally letting loose a fervent string of oaths. 

Before he could talk himself out of it, he retrieved his money box from the mantel and brought it to the table, where he counted the contents. There was no comfort in finding it all there. He closed the box and fished a lavender biscuit out of the tin. He ate it without pleasure and followed it up with a second, and then a third. The tea went cold as he fetched himself a large glass of wine instead, and though he lingered in the shop until dinnertime, Nori did not come back.


	17. Cold Rabbit (Dori & family)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dori's last memories of Erebor are ones of smoke and flame.

It all happened so fast:

_a terrible sound_

_a rush of hot air_

_a tremor beneath his feet_

"Dragon!"

He heard the word, but it made no sense.

The ground shook again.

_The mines_ , Dori thought, halted halfway down the staircase that led to the middle strata. He had just come in from the hills, his slingshot hanging from his belt and a fat coney under his arm. _The mines_ , he thought, imagining in an instant some sort of accident, an explosion, how horrid—

Fire.

It flared as bright as a forge and raced down the street before him.

Dragon.

Dragon.

"Run!"

His feet took flight, propelling him towards the scorched stone walls below. Down—that was his first instinct. Down towards home, towards Mam and Nori. Down was always safer. When in doubt, go underground.

But somebody grabbed his arm. Sigrún, one of Uncle Vyri's admirers in the guard. He was yanked back and shoved up the stairs instead.

"Go!" Sigrún roared. "Go! Everyone out!"

Smoke was filling the corridors. One moment he could breathe and the next he couldn't. He ran, his eyes stinging and his throat closing up. Everyone was running now. Someone crashed into him. Someone stepped on his foot. He hurtled blindly up to the central hall, and there the exodus jammed.

The air was hot. A baby was shrieking.

He caught glimpses of neighbours. Friends. His mother's hair. He struggled through the crowd, trying to reach her.

"Mam!"

Someone elbowed him, hurrying past.

"Dori!"

The ground trembled again. The _mountain_ trembled. He grabbed at his mother's sleeve and held on to it.

"Where's your brother?"

He could barely hear her. He looked around wildly. He hadn't seen Nori since breakfast.

His mother shook him so hard that he staggered. 

"Dori, where is he?"

"I don't know!"

Nori had wanted to come hunting with him. Nori had overslept. Nori had been a pain all week, and Dori had left without him.

"I don't know," he said again, faced with the blank, disbelieving look in her eyes and uncertain whether she had heard him. "I don't know, I don't know where he is."

She pushed him away. "Go on ahead."

He tried to grab hold of her again, but she was already shoving through the crowd, going back the way she had come, going back inside, back into the smoke.

"Mam!"

The roar of the fire and the clamour of voices gave way to a great gasp of relief as the obstruction at the gates cleared. The crowd surged forward, and Dori was carried away against his will. Shoulders slammed into him, driving him backwards until he could get himself turned around. He tripped over his own feet and barely saved himself from a trampling. 

Cold air stung his face. They had made it outside. He couldn't see whether they were heading towards Dale or towards the hills. He couldn't see anything but a frantic crush of neighbours and strangers.

Wailing pierced his ears. Not a baby this time.

It all happened so fast, so fast—

—and then when he began to understand what had happened

time seemed to stop

altogether.

Everything went quiet.

There was an acrid stench, so awful it made him retch. He was sick in his mouth.

He knew that smell. Grandfather's funeral. Braids cut off and pinned to the funeral wreath.

Burning hair.

Fire.

Death.

Faces swam around him, and slivers of yellow sky, and flashes of red. He rubbed his eyes, and when his fingers withdrew, they were smudged black with ashes. He was climbing now, uphill, out of the valley. He couldn't feel his legs. His ears were ringing and his chest hurt, but he put one foot in front of the other, following in the steps of the family in front of him, afraid of being lost or left behind if he looked back.

They climbed for what felt like a very long time.

_ada, ada_

_have you seen my grandmother?_

_it's all right, it's all right, Tyrin has the children_

Atop a hill, above the smoke, they slowed. They stopped. There were hundreds of them. Thousands, perhaps. Dori had never seen so many people above ground at once. It was like a festival. Some strange parade.

He looked in dull apprehension at the burning mountain. Below, the city of Dale was painted black. The forest was blazing.

Motes of live ash floated on the air, rising up to find them even here. Dark spots shrouded his vision when he tore his eyes away from the fire. He saw his uncle in the distance, standing alone at the very top of the hill. Vyri looked lost, clutching a sack made from his summer cloak. He was still in his house slippers, with someone else's oversized coat draped over his shoulders.

Dori staggered over to him.

"Oh, thank the Maker," Uncle Vyri breathed. The sack hit the ground with a muffled clink.

He was pulled into his uncle's embrace and held so tightly he was nearly smothered.

"I don't know where they are," Dori heard himself say. "I don't know..."

Uncle Vyri had no answer for him. He smelled faintly of the safe, familiar scent of bergamot beneath the stink of smoke. 

Mercifully, someone in the crowd found the sense to start bellowing her clan's name. The crowd stirred as her kinsmen followed the sound of her voice. Someone else joined in, and soon the tangle of noise began to sort itself into skeins.

"Ari!" Dori attempted, but his cry was lost to the booming call of one of the sons of Durin.

He tried again, to no avail. Uncle Vyri was silent, fussing senselessly with Dori's hair.

"Orvar!"

Dori looked around in desperate hope. He knew that voice.

"Orvar!"

His knees buckled in grievous joy when he saw Nuar, and Mam and Nori with him. Nori was sooty but looked unharmed, tucked under his father's arm. Nuar's beard was singed and his right hand was wrapped in a rag, his fingers dark and wrong-looking where they protruded. Mam was holding a handkerchief over her nose and mouth. Her hair was burned, and her face was red. She was coughing.

It was only then that Dori realized he was still clutching the coney. He looked down to find his fingers locked around the animal's legs. The hindquarters moved strangely in his grip. Bones broken. The coney's fur was warm from the boiling air, but its flesh had gone stiff. It was too late to paunch it. The meat had likely spoilt.

The poor thing, he thought.

What a waste.

And he promptly burst into tears.


	18. Table Manners III (Dori/Dwalin, Verbal Bondage)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin brings his best manners to the Amethyst, and Dori tests his resolve.

Dwalin son of Fundin returned to the Amethyst Tea House on very thin ice.

"How nice to see you again," Dori said, greeting him at the door with his sharpest smile.

_Go on_ , he hoped that smile properly conveyed. _Go on and clomp your boots inside my shop one more time. I dare you. Offer one more insult and see what I do, you wine-guzzling longshanks_.

Dwalin bowed low in greeting and bought himself some small measure of indulgence by offering up a handsome bottle of spirits.

"Mister Dori," he said solemnly, "it is in an honour to visit your fine establishment."

That had certainly been rehearsed. Nonetheless, it had a decent ring to it.

"You're too kind," Dori replied, not quite knocking all the starch out of his voice. He took custody of the bottle and examined it stealthily before setting it aside. Blackberry brandy, the good stuff, bottled down-mountain in Stoope if he was not mistaken. 

Not bad.

The same could be said of his guest. Dwalin had obviously been to the baths today, scrubbed to an incongruous pink as he was and smelling strongly of pine tar soap besides. His dark hair and beard were brushed out to a respectable volume, and the pewter cuffs on his ear had been replaced with gold rings. No one could say he hadn't made an effort.

Dori let him in and took his cloak. He reached for Dwalin's dagger and found it surrendered without hesitation, flipped deftly to land hilt-first in his palm. Dwalin's expression was the picture of amiability, but there was a glimmer in his eyes. _Go on_ , it said. _Find one good reason to put me out. I dare you._

"Why, thank you," Dori cooed.

He placed the dagger upon the mantel and then returned for his fee. His fingertips took the scenic route, stealing around Dwalin's hip and brushing briefly across the front of his trousers before dipping into his purse. Dwalin held himself as still as stone, but Dori could hear his breath catch.

He flipped two coins into the money box and patted Dwalin on the bottom.

"I hope you brought your appetite."

The prospect of another visit cut short had tempted him towards thriftiness, but he could not bring himself to lay a mean spread. This was two parts professional pride and one part bloodymindedness. If he was going to have to throw Dwalin out again, he wanted all parts of the blundering troll—boxed ear, blue balls, and empty stomach alike—to regret it dearly.

To that end, a golden-brown partridge pie held pride of place in the centre of the table. It was threatening to overspill its case, stuffed near to groaning with the whole of one bird made savoury with bacon and mushrooms and a glug of dry sherry-wine. There was a loaf of oaten bread still warm from the oven, cooling next to a newly opened jar of cranberry preserves. To one side, as though a luxurious afterthought, sat a small dish of candied chestnuts.

"Shall I take the cork out of that brandy?" Dori asked.

Dwalin dragged his gaze away from the bounty on the table. He licked his lips and glanced briefly at the bottle of brandy before shaking his head resolutely.

"Oh no," he declared in altogether too showy a manner to be believable. "I wouldn't dream of taking strong drink before dinner. That bottle is a gift."

Dori looked at him skeptically, certain he had more than once seen him leaving the tavern at an hour when more respectable dwarves were still at their breakfasts.

Dwalin raised his eyebrows innocently, the jut of his chin challenging Dori to slander him.

Dori refused to give him the satisfaction. "How thoughtful of you."

He made a pot of cranberry tea instead and served out their luncheon while it steeped. The rich crust crackled as he split the pie in two. He slid the slightly larger half onto Dwalin's plate and took his time fussing over its placement and tidying up the stray flakes of pastry. Dwalin's right hand twitched, but he refrained from snatching up his share. Two slices of bread followed, spread generously with the preserves. He had been snacking on the chestnuts all morning, and so three went to Dwalin alone, served out one by one with the darling little silver spoon he hadn't been able to resist buying for the purpose.

Dwalin, sitting as straight-backed as a king, neatly turned up his sleeves and patiently waited for Dori to take the first bite.

Oh, the _beast_.

Dori picked up his half of the pie and had a nibble. Dwalin followed suit, letting a grunt of pleasure slip at the taste.

If Dori were truly of a cruel disposition, he might have insisted on lively conversation. As it was, he plastered on a pleasant smile and made small talk about the weather and the upcoming holy days and amused himself by counting along as Dwalin conscientiously chewed each bite of food exactly ten times. Away went the pie, down to the last speck. The chestnuts disappeared one by one. The bread was saved for last, savoured with closed eyes and a soft smack of the lips.

When he was finished, Dwalin pounded his chest with his fist and knocked loose a complimentary belch. He then dabbed delicately at his moustache with his napkin as if he had never wiped his mouth with the back of his hand in all his life.

"More bread?" Dori inquired.

"I couldn't," the scoundrel said.

It would serve him right if Dori took him at his word, but he was not going to cheat a paying customer. 

"I insist." He heaped two more slices with preserves and placed them on Dwalin's plate. 

Dwalin took a large bite, humming. He chewed and swallowed before looking at the slice in his hand thoughtfully.

"It's good bread," he said. "My mother used to make a loaf like this."

Soft touch that he was, Dori had to dish out three more chestnuts for him. Dwalin brightened and popped one into his mouth. He did have a nice smile when he had a care to show it. Nice eyes, when they were crinkling at the corners. 

Well, then.

When all that was left were crumbs and tea leaves, Dori stood up and started off towards the bedroom. He crooked his fingers, beckoning Dwalin to follow, and heard behind him the sound of a chair nearly toppling over as it was vacated in haste.

That polite restraint slipped its reins in the bedroom. Dwalin's arms came around from behind, capturing him and pulling him close. Dori leaned back into his inviting embrace, tilting his head to one side and baring his neck for a nuzzle. Dwalin's nose and mouth and rough beard made a good show of themselves, and Dori allowed it for a few moments before twisting around to partake of some proper kisses.

His fingers tangled in Dwalin's beard, and he warmed up with a tingle under the press of Dwalin's lips and the rather nice hand that was petting his backside. He could feel Dwalin's cock stirring, pushing against his belly with growing insistence. 

"I want you," Dwalin murmured, his voice low and rumbling. He cupped Dori's bottom with both hands and ground against him.

Dori was quite amenable to being wanted, and he was not entirely opposed to being had. However, he dug in his heels against being steered towards the bed, and he gave Dwalin a gentle shove instead.

"I like to see what I'm working with," he said, his hand lingering on Dwalin's chest. "Why don't you take off your clothes and make yourself comfortable?"

Dwalin did not hesitate before stripping down to his skin, making quick work of his buttons and buckles and boots before spreading himself out shamelessly on the bed. He lay back, his arms folded behind his head and his cock standing at attention.

Dori looked him over, unable to suppress a flicker of admiration—a brief twitch of an eyebrow and rounding of his lips. Lanky beast or no, Dwalin was obviously as strong as a ram, and as woolly as one too. He was covered in a thick pelt of black curls, which spread across his broad chest and hardly narrowed as it trailed down his belly to his well-formed thighs.

"Hm," was all Dori deigned to say.

Dwalin looked smug nonetheless.

Dori undressed by the bedside, taking his time and pausing to neatly hang up his clothes. He was aware of Dwalin watching him closely, eyes passing over him in greedy, gratifying gulps that returned to his shoulders and his backside for seconds.

"I think we got off to a bad start," Dori confided, climbing onto the bed and straddling Dwalin's thighs. 

Dwalin licked his lips and reached for him. "Agreed."

Dori caught his hands and smiled brightly. "Ah-ah. Just pop these onto the headboard, if you please. I want to get a proper look at you."

There was a moment's naughty hesitation, but Dwalin obeyed. He took hold of the spindles on the headboard, and Dori rewarded him by grabbing the oil from the bedside table and getting his palms good and slippery.

"Look at these shoulders." He traced their breadth and gave them a good rub, fingers pushing into taut muscle with nearly all his strength.

Dwalin's eyes closed and his lips parted around a deep groan.

"And this chest..." 

He worked his way down slowly, kneading as he went, crisp curls rubbing roughly beneath his hands. 

"Very nice," he purred, giving Dwalin's nipples a rolling squeeze between finger and thumb.

"Ah." Dwalin pressed up into the pinch.

"Does that feel good?" Dori asked, teasing the little paps until they tightened up and reddened, peeping out like raspberries in a thicket.

Dwalin nodded, biting his lip and moaning as Dori squeezed them harder.

" _Very_ nice," Dori said. "And this..."

He rubbed his way down to Dwalin's hips, closing in on his bobbing cock.

Once there, he poured more oil into his palm and grasped the stiff thing in both hands. It was a rather nice one, long and curving gently towards Dwalin's belly. The tip was pierced through with a very fetching gold bar, which Dori flicked with his thumbnail.

"You know, Mister Dwalin," Dori continued, "I'm certain we must have got off to a bad start, because I can see that you're the generous sort. You are the generous sort, aren’t you?"

Perhaps there was an instant of wariness in Dwalin's eyes, but it quickly dulled to pleasure-haze as Dori stroked his cock with well-oiled hands. 

"Aye," Dwalin said. "I try to be."

"Of course you do," Dori said soothingly. "Getting a piece like this just to give someone a nice tickle when they sit on your cock—now that's the mark of a generous fellow."

Dwalin's lips curved into the smile of a guest offered extra bread and jam.

"You will give me nice tickle, won't you?" Dori prompted, pressing his cock against Dwalin's and sliding them together. His other hand stole down to tumble Dwalin's stones.

"Aye," Dwalin breathed, letting go of the headboard and grasping Dori's backside. "Whatever you want."

Dori let go of Dwalin's cock and took hold of his wrists. He pinned them back down on the pillow. "Just hold on, there's a dear."

Dwalin hesitated, but at Dori's encouraging nod he took hold of the headboard once more.

"Good," Dori said, giving Dwalin's cock a very thorough buttering up before using the rest of the oil on himself. 

He edged forward until he was astride Dwalin's hips, fingering himself a little longer than was strictly necessary for the show of it. He reached back and pressed Dwalin's cock against his slippery cleft.

Dwalin made a sound very like a guard dog's growl. His fingers uncurled from the headboard spindle, and he looked poised to reach out again, but a glance from Dori halted him. His hands stayed where they were. He could, apparently, be taught.

Dori took Dwalin's cock in slowly, his back arching as he angled for that tickle. Oh, there it was...

He sank down, his soft moan in higher-pitched harmony with Dwalin's. He wiggled, getting comfortable. His hips rolled, and he gave himself a rousing rub.

"Ah," he sighed, having a little bounce. "That's nice."

Dwalin seemed to be entirely in agreement. His hips pushed upwards, but he caught himself, looking at Dori cannily. No, he certainly wasn't as dull as previous experience would suggest. Dori beamed in approval. 

"Go right ahead."

Dwalin planted his feet and thrust up into him with a grateful moan. Dori leaned back against the convenient cradle of Dwalin's thighs, stroking himself happily as Dwalin took over the brunt of the work. He had a good sense of rhythm, Dori had to give him that, and gracious could he screw it in deep. He rocked beneath Dori, as steady as a cart pony, starting at an amble and soon working his way up to a trot. 

"That's it," Dori cried, getting a rollicking good tupping. "Just like that."

The muscles in Dwalin's stomach flexed impressively as he levered himself up. He was breathing heavily now, grunting with the force of each thrust. A dark red flush was spreading from his breastbone to just above his beard.

"Oh, that's good," Dori moaned, his hand picking up speed to match the snap of Dwalin's hips. "That's perfect, right there. Oh, you generous thing. You'll keep it up until I come, won't you?"

Dwalin faltered, stifling an oath. He was close, as close as Dori was—or closer, judging by the way his eyes pressed shut in anguish.

"There's a lovely fellow," Dori said, grinding down on him. "Not a rude bone in your body. You wouldn't go ahead and spurt before I'm done, would you?"

"No," Dwalin's mouth said. "Of course not." 

His eyes, squinting open into a glare, added: 'You bastard.'

Dori grinned and got back to rubbing himself off as Dwalin returned to his paces. His fingers flew, bring him to the very edge as he was merrily jounced, watching Dwalin's face grow redder and redder and his knuckles grow whiter and whiter, and for pity's sake, if he went and broke that headboard Dori was certainly going to bill him for it—

"Bloody son of a thrice-damned orc!" Dwalin groaned, and after a desperate, panting pause, he set his jaw like iron and drove up into Dori with renewed vigour.

"Oh!" Dori shouted, voice wobbling.

"Go on," Dwalin muttered as he hammered at him, more plea than prescript, which was lucky for his sake. "Go on, go on, go on..."

Dori did, wanking himself off with a triumphant shout as Dwalin fucked him fiercely. Lashings of cream spilt across Dwalin's chest, pearling on his pelt. Dwalin, eyes fixed upon Dori's spurting cock, let go with a bellow, rattling Dori's teeth with the thrusts that followed and nearly bucking them both clear off the bed in his ardour. The headboard creaked but remained in one piece as Dwalin strained, arching, trembling, and then subsided with a gusty sigh.

"Hm," Dori said when he had caught his breath. "Not bad at all."

He wiggled again on Dwalin's cock, biting his lip and humming in pleasure as Dwalin's chest heaved. He ran an idle finger through the pearly mess he had made.

Dwalin grinned, seemingly despite himself. He shook his head and chuckled. "That was good. Damned good."

Dori shrugged and then leaned down and kissed him. He drew back, unwound Dwalin's fingers from around the headboard, and then kissed him again.

"Not bad," he insisted. "But if you behave yourself in the bath, I might just consider us square."


End file.
